


Chaos Contained

by bernalheights



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, Curse of Obedience, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dubious Consent, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, M/M, Mind Control, Mixed POV (Per Chapter), Non-Explicit Underage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Top Dean, pre-Season One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-03 05:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 60,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14561931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bernalheights/pseuds/bernalheights
Summary: Trapped in a life full of pain, misery, and death, Sam finally has a chance to escape it all... until he doesn't. His chance at normality is shattered when he discovers he's tied to an obedience spell with an overbearing brother and cursed with powers beyond his understanding. While Dean does everything in his power to keep his family together, Sam's prepared to do whatever it takes to break the curse.





	1. Chapter 1

18 Years Old.

He finally made it. Years of being treated like a snot-nosed kid but thrust into situations that no self-respecting adult would ever enter. The whole experience shitty experience was accompanied by a domineering father who treated him like a soldier, a warrior, but rarely ever a son.

And his brother. 

Dean.

But “brother” doesn’t really encompass all that Dean is.

They were never the ones to put labels on what they are. _If you ever call me your boyfriend Sam, I’ll kick your ass._ Yet, after a while, they stopped trying to deny what they had. Growing up surrounded by evil, tangible and intangible alike, seemed to make the taboo of incest minuscule in comparison.

He was 14 when they shared their first kiss and 15 when he first crawled into Dean’s bed. Trapped beneath crusted motel covers, they exchanged ragged breaths combined with sweet friction barely eased by their combined spit coating their cocks. Sam had come so hard collapsing on Dean’s chest while Dean complained under him. _Get up bitch, you’re too fucking big for this shit. Sam. Get the fuck up. Sammy!_

Sam had simply dug his nose deeper into the curve of Dean’s neck, breathing in clean sweat and dollar store shampoo. Dean had sighed and brought his hand to the small of Sam’s back. _This is a one-time thing, Sam. I don’t care how much you like to cuddle after sex._

It wasn’t a one-time thing, no matter how many times Dean said it would be _._ Every exchange always ended in a tangle of limbs, cold feet, and warm breath.

But now it’s all going to change. For the better.

He’s got a full ride to Stanford and he has every intention of taking Dean with him. No matter how many times he pleads the opposite, Sam knows Dean isn’t just a grunt trapped in a life of death, monsters, and pre-mature alcoholism. He’s meant for so much more.

 _They’re_ meant for so much more.

And now it’s his birthday and he’s no longer held back by the social construct of childhood. But why does he feel this pit in his stomach? Deep and gnawing; a metaphorical hole in his gut. 

“Sam, I need to speak with you.”

Sam turns away from the bed to find his Dad sitting at the table with Dean, disassembling guns. For a split second, Sam panics thinking that John knows exactly what he was thinking about. Somehow, John can read through the recesses of his mind and uncovered his plans to run away from this hellhole, taking the favored son with him. He takes a shaky breath and walks over to the table.

“Yes, sir?” Dean is silent, cleaning his guns. His broad callused fingers swiping over the sleek silver metal, pointedly ignoring Sam’s approach.

“We need to talk about what happened yesterday, son.”

Sam already knows it’s coming, ever since he chose to break the rules on yesterday’s hunt.

There are a couple standards in the Winchester House of Monster Hunters. Most of them applying to Sam strictly since Dean just happens to always adhere to the unreasonable standards set by John Winchester. But one rule, in particular, is enforced with the utmost importance.

Sam Winchester is to never _ever_ use his powers.

It all started when he was ten years old; his birthday to be exact. 

May 2nd, 1993.

John had decided it was time to pick up and leave, once again, to chase another monster of the night. And it just so happened to be right when Sam had finally started to fit in. He had even gotten a small part, but a part nonetheless, in the school play. Their first recital was next week and Sam had just finished putting the final touches on his costume when John had announced their soon-to-be departure.

Sam had pleaded, argued and whined. It wasn’t fair. It was one of the first times he didn’t feel like a freak. One of the first times he actually fit in. He felt a coil unwrap in his stomach, a tingling sensation in his fingertips spreading inward. And suddenly, everything in the room was floating. From the beds, the tables, and the desks, to the notepad stationary and silverware. Even Dean and John were floating, like the astronauts he once saw on a TV program. Only Sam remained grounded. Dean was freaking out but their Dad was surprisingly calm. There was steel in his eye and the look he gave Sam chilled him to the bone. It was too similar to the ones he had whenever he thought of the thing that killed their Mom.

~~~~~~~~

 _“Sam, you have to stop this right now. Put everything back on the ground. Now!” John’s cold eyes are turned towards him. Unflinching and hard._  

_Sam, overwhelmed and utterly scared, starts hyperventilating -  breaths ragged and stuttered, trying to hold back tears._

_“I – I – I can’t. D-dad. I don’t know. Please h-help. Make it stop. P-Please.”_

_John’s eyes instantly soften, like he’s seeing Sam again and not some freak of the week he’s planning on hunting down._

_“I need you to breathe. Deep breaths, Sammy. Come on. Look at me.”  Sam takes a shuddering inhale and looks up at his father as he exhales, taking comfort in his warm dark eyes. Dean, on the other hand, has just gotten the use of his voice back and starts to voice his thoughts on the situation._

_“Holy fucking shit, Sam! Sam, he’s… you’re doing this! What the fuck Sam!? What the fuck. What the f-“_

_“Shut up, Dean,” John says briskly, leaving Dean’s mouth gaping but silent. Sam can’t help the laughter bubbling up and ends up giggling watching his normally suave brother try to balance himself through the air, floating in circles._  

_John turns back to Sam. A tentative smile on his face, warring with the worry lines creased into his forehead._

_“See, Sammy. It’s gonna be just fine. Now, I need you to put everything back on the ground, son.”_

_A laugh dies in Sam’s throat, but that overwhelming panic has diminished into a shadow of itself._

_“I… I don’t know how to.”_

_“It’s okay Sam, just… how are feeling right now?”_

_“Scared.” Sam immediately covers his hands with his mouth. It’s an unspoken Winchester rule to never bring up your weakness, at least out loud. It makes it easier for it to get to you._  

_John lets out a weak laugh._

_“I get that, I really do, but do you feel anything different? Something you’ve never felt before?”_

_As if on cue, the tingling sensation intensifies and some of the objects around the room begin to spin in lazy circles._

_“I feel tingly. Kind of like my foot fell asleep, but not really. And it’s all over. Not just my foot. My whole body feels like its kinda vibrating, but inside.”_

_“Okay, I need you to focus on that feeling, buddy and just try to push it down.”_

_“H-how do I do that?”_

_“It’s like when you and Dean used to play Batman and Superman. You would imagine that you were Superman, right? Well, just imagine yourself pushing that feeling down, getting rid of all those little tingles.”_

_“Okay Dad, I’ll try.”_

_Closing his eyes, Sam concentrates on the tingling feeling. Pushing it down with his mind, he feels it slowly subside. When he reopens his eyes, all the furniture is rearranged around the room, but back on the floor. His Dad and Dean are staring at him with wide eyes._

_Feeling completely exhausted, he falls to his knees and tears leak from his eyes before he can stop them. Dean rushes to his side and holds him like he used to when Sam was little and had nightmares about monsters under the bed._  

 _Sam breaks down, big heaving sobs that wrack his tiny frame and Dean just holds him tighter_.

“ _It’s okay, Sammy. It’s over now. Never knew you were like the friggin' X-Men. Should we send you to a special school? Shit, Sam! I was kidding. What would I do without my pain-in-the-ass little brother? Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not funny. But it’s fine Sam. I’ve got you._

_I’ve got you, Sammy.”_

_~~~~~~~~_

Ever since then, it was a constant battle of keeping his powers under control. John had a strict no powers policy, but sometimes Sam just couldn’t control it. Bouts of anger, sadness, sometimes even happiness would cause things to float and fly across the room. Then, he would be forced to concentrate until everything went stationary.

_Run some laps, Sam. You need to burn that excess energy._

Sam would sometimes go outside and run a fair distance, into some woods or to an abandoned park and sometimes, sometimes he wouldn’t just run. 

Sometimes he would watch leaves twirl mid-air on a completely windless day. He would have them form letters and shapes, guide them through the air in a mockery of a rollercoaster. It was always best at the beginning of the fall when the leaves just began to change colors. Swirls of burnt red-orange still tinged with bright green cascading through the air unnaturally, blocking out the thoughts of “impure” and “freak”.

“Sam. Sam! Are you listening to me boy?” Sam was snapped back into the present. Back to his father’s intense gaze and Dean’s worried stare.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I was distracted.” Sam straightens up a little bit, gathering every last bit of height. 

“Obviously.” The intensity in John’s eyes wavers momentarily before they harden further. “What happened yesterday, I never want it to happen ever again.”

Sam sighs, rolls his eyes and starts to turn away.

“I’m serious, Sam.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“You can’t just be using your powers casually like that. Deliberately like that. We’ve discussed this before. They are off-limits and unnatural. You can’t just dabble in it like it’s a hobby. Once that evil has you, you can’t just walk out of the darkness like that.” John snaps his fingers on the 'that' as to emphasize the point, but Sam's too busy fuming to really notice. 

“You don’t know anything, Dad. it wasn’t casual and it wasn’t for laughs. A little girl’s parents died; her house was burning to the ground. She had nothing and you’re mad at me for using my powers to get one measly teddy bear out of the goddamn house?! The one thing that helped her stop crying if for a minute. One stupid little thing to remind her of her parents?”

Once he starts, he can’t bring himself to stop. 

“You know, I can relate a little, God knows I know absolutely jack shit about Mom. You and Dean keep that shit bottled up so tight and I don’t know a goddamn thing cause y’all won’t tell me, no matter how many times I ask. All I get is evasion and vague comments. 

“Every mother’s day, every anniversary, every year on her birthday or the day she died, y’all just mope and get black-out drunk leaving me to clean up everything. So, if I go dark side helping that girl have a reminder of her parents, it was fucking worth it.”

John stands up and slaps Sam in the face, quick and sharp.

“You don’t mean that shit,” John’s breathing hard, chest heaving in indignation while Dean sits in silence, shock poorly masked. “You’re gonna let yourself become a fucking freak just because you can’t control your little sentimentalities?

“You didn’t lose your mother because you _never_ fucking knew her. I lost her. Dean lost her. And all because a freak, like the one you’re trying to become came in and took her away from us.”

Sam looks up at his Dad, rubbing his reddened cheek, eyes watery but bright and feverish with righteous anger.

“A freak like I’m becoming huh? Well, good thing you won’t have to be around me any longer.”  Turning away, he bends down and grabs the duffel under his bed and starts shoving everything in arm’s reach into the bag.

“I didn’t mean it like that Sam, you know that- “

“Shut up, I don’t wanna hear it anymore. I’m fucking leaving.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, boy,” John growls, voice menacing. Sam turns around and squares his shoulders.

“Or what, you gonna slap me around some more? Beat me into submission? In case you haven’t noticed, it’s my birthday. I’m 18 now, which means I’m done with this bullshit.” 

“How? You have nothing. What could you possibly do? Where could you possibly go? You’re still a child, even if the law says differently.” 

“Not that you would care, but I got a full ride to Stanford.,” Sam’s smug, finally able to pull one over on his dad, “Yeah, your freak son got a full ride at one of the best universities in the nation and your freak son is gonna get away from all this crap. From the monsters, from the death, from all of it and you can’t fucking stop me.”

With all his bare essentials packed away, he heads towards the door of the motel room.

“Sammy-.”

Sam turns back to see Dean looking between him and their father, hurt and shock now apparent on his face.

In the chaos of the argument, Sam had forgotten about his brother. He hastily swipes at his watery eyes and fights back the urge to go back and apologize, anything to wipe that look off Dean’s face.

“Fuck off, Dean. You’ve never defended me before, always too busy being Daddy’s perfect little solider. I can’t do this anymore,” swallowing hard he pushes past the hurt look on Dean’s face. “If you ever get the balls to stand up to him and be your own man, you know where to find me.”

With that, Sam slams the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~

A light drizzle falls down, darkening the gravel of the parking lot and Sam slings the bag over his shoulder and heads out. There’s a bus station about 10 miles from the motel and he has exactly $528.68 in his wallet saved from odd jobs throughout the school year. This wasn’t exactly how he wanted to spend his birthday, but he’s leaving it all behind, in the heat of the moment.

It was supposed to be different tonight.

He had had it all planned out.

He was gonna use some of the money on a hotel, not a motel, but a hotel room for the night under the façade of having a boy’s night out for his birthday. He would’ve been able to tell Dean about his plan to attend Stanford and how he would’ve been able to bring Dean along.

Dean deserves more than a bloody death and a descent into whiskey-soaked revenge. He could’ve been with Sam, but all that shattered as he remembers his brother sitting there silently, complacent.

As much as he loves Dean, Dean is and will always too burdened by duty to ever run away with him. A foolish dream, but it still causes Sam’s eyes to sting as he thinks about what he’s leaving behind. 

Sam hears the engine before he even registers the voice calling out.

“Sam. Sammy!” The old black car drives past Sam, the bright red lights in the rear signaling the brakes as it pulls over. Dean rushes out of the car, flushed and wide-eyed and every bit as beautiful as he approaches Sam, confidence missing from his gait.

Sam tries not to let the hope show in his voice. “Did you change your mind or are you just here to bring me back. I told you, I’m done, Dean. I’m done with it all.”

“Sam, you can’t just leave over this. We’re a family, we’re meant to do this together, be together.”

“It didn’t seem like it when Dad slapped me and called me a freak.” Dean has the sense to look ashamed as he rubs the back of his neck and kicks a couple of stray rocks on the ground before speaking.

“Ya know he didn’t mean it like that; Dad just gets carried away sometimes. I mean you have _powers_ Sam, that’s not normal and it’s hard for him to deal with that.” Dean speaks softly, urgently over the soft patter of the rain.

“Normal? My powers aren’t normal?! You know what’s not normal? The fact that instead of teaching me how to throw a football, he taught me how to take down a friggin’ spirit with a rock salt gun when I was 11 years old.  That’s what’s not normal, Dean! So stow the bullshit and get out of my way.” Sam's voice rises with each word getting higher and pinched with anxiety.

“Sam…” Dean grabs his arm to stop him from walking away and lifts Sam’s chin ever so slightly as he looks him straight into his eyes, showing a level of vulnerability that Sam rarely sees. “What about us?”

“Dean, we’re the opposite of normal. We’re brothers who fuck for God’s sake.” The hands around Sam’s chin grows tighter.

“You can’t mean that, after all the time you’ve spent convincing me the opposite. You’re just trying to push me away! I’m not that fucking stupid. I practically raised you, Sam. Maybe you’re the one who needs to stow the bullshit.” 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but the point still stands. I’m leaving and it’s over. So you can either come with or get the fuck out of my way,” pushing Dean’s hand away, he readjusts the sling on his backpack and walks past Dean. 

“Sam, stop. SAM, JUST STOP WALKING AWAY GODDAMNIT!”  

Sam feels his body freeze in mid-motion, feet glued to cement, his whole body refusing to cooperate with his brain.

“Dean, FUCK. Stop whatever the fuck you’re doing! This isn’t fucking funny.” Sam twists his upper half trying to unlatch his feet from the pavement.

“Sam, calm down. What the hell are you talking about?” 

“I can’t move, my feet won’t fucking move, Dean.” Dean’s right in front of Sam now, bewildered and slightly scared at the prospect.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you told me to stop walking and now, I. CAN’T. FUCKING. WALK!”

“Are you saying- “

“What else what I would be saying?! Have you been messing around with witchcraft or something?! Are you that fucking desperate?!” Sam’s starting to get hysterical and his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“Sammy, calm down.”

“I can’t, you fucking moron. I can’t fucking move from- “

“I said, Calm down. Sam. Now.” The change in Sam is instantaneous. His breathing evens out and his whole body relaxes, tension released.    

“What’s happening to me, Dean?” he says without any of the previous anxiety, just his regular smooth cadence.

“I don’t know,” Dean says shaking his head helplessly.

“You don’t know? You are literally controlling me. You told me to stop walking, and I stopped walking. You told me to calm down and I’m strangely calm and I really _really_ wanna freak out, but my body will literally not let me.”

“I’m not controlling you, Sam. That’s not possible. You’re the ones with the powers, not me!” 

“Tell me I can walk.”

“What?!”

“Tell me I can move, Dean.”

“You can move, Sam,”  Dean said blankly, not truly comprehending the situation.

Whatever force that was keeping Sam stationary suddenly relents and he starts to move away from the spot he was stuck to like the ground below is cursed.

“Now tell me I can feel whatever emotion I want to feel.”

“You can feel whatever emotion you want to feel, Sam.” The hazy calm evaporates from Sam’s mind. His face is no longer a smooth mask but a wild tangle of disbelief and fear as he regards Dean.

“I never wanna feel that again and I don’t wanna know what this even means. I’m done with all things supernatural. So here’s what we're gonna do: I’m gonna go to Stanford. You find whatever curse that is and break it. And then please Dean, please…Join me in California. You deserve so much more than a life stuck hunting monsters.” Sam takes a deep breath summoning all of his courage before continuing.

“You were right. I was lying about not wanting to be with you You were the only thing that kept me going sometimes, but I can’t be around this family anymore, I can’t handle this life anymore. I know I’m not normal, hell not even close, but I wanna try. And I want you to be there with me. Please.”

A pained looked crosses over Dean’s face, fleeting and distinct replaced with a hard resolved stare.

“No.” 

“No?” Sam tries to mask the hurt.

“No, I’m not going to Stanford with you, I’m not running away from our problems. And neither are you.”

“What the fuck Dean, you can’t control my life.”

“Actually, we just discovered I can.” Sam’s stomach drops as he pieces it together. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Sam, you are not going to Stanford. You are not allowed to leave behind your family and our duty in keeping people safe,” Dean infuses as much authority as he can while he speaks, voice slightly wavering as he sees the look on Sam’s face, but he doesn’t hesitate once. “You are not allowed to leave me.”

“Dean…”  Sam’s voice is soft and crippled with hurt and disbelief. He watches as every dream and hope for normality, stability crumbles around him. “Dean, y-you can’t, y-you aren’t-“

“I’m so sorry, Sammy. I can’t let you leave.”  

Sam slumps to the ground, every inch of fight leaving his body. Tears tracks and runny nose tucked into his knees as he curls into himself.

“It’ll be different this time, Sammy. No Dad this time. It can be just me, you and the open road. How’s that sound?” Sam doesn’t move, long limbs huddled into a ball. Sam feels Dean wrap around him, smooth leather, motor oil and cheap cigarettes blocking out everything else.

It’ll be fine, Sammy. I promise.”

 Sam knows it won’t be.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates at least every Sunday!


	2. Chapter 2

**2 years later.**

“It’s obviously a Cyclops, Dean. I can’t believe I couldn’t figure it out earlier. All the signs point to it.”

“Cyclops, huh? So what do we have to do to take down this one-eyed fugly son of a bitch?” Dean takes up a sip from his glass and leans back against the vinyl seats of the diner as he regards Sam.

Sam’s gotten taller in the past 2 years, shot up a couple inches to finally tower over Dean. You could never tell from the booth they’re sitting in; he’s all legs. Lean muscles are hidden under layers of clothing giving him that gangly teenage look and the dimples carved into his cheeks take another 3 years off his face. He still has those puppy dog bangs that cover his kaleidoscope eyes as his turns through the pages of some musty book on Greek mythology.

“Well, in the original mythology, Cyclops are known as blacksmiths which explains the creative use of human remains we’ve been finding. I think that instead of crafting things out of metal like a traditional Cyclops, it’s been killing humans and using their bones.”

“I mean I have to give it to him, he has excellent craftsmanship. Who knew a human femur could make such a nice sword?”

“You’re disgusting, and how do you even know it’s even a guy? Never mind…” Sam wrinkles his nose in annoyance. “Gonna let me finish now or do you wanna be the one to leaf through 400 pages of Greek?”

“Lead on, Nerd Boy,” Dean smirks raising his glass to gesture for Sam to continue.

“Nice one. Anyway, there’s a lot of conflicting ideas for killing Cyclops, but this one book that Bobby lent me says that a Cyclops can be defeated with a gold dagger through the eye.”

“Sounds simple enough, now we just got to find the sucker and kill it. Does it have to be pure gold or can it be gold alloy, ‘cuz I don’t know if we’ve got pure gold in the car.” 

“Not sure, the more gold, the better; I’m assuming. But I think I found a solution to finding the Cyclops, so it says that-”

Sam’s interrupted by the waitress approaching their table.

“Can I get y’all boys any dessert?” A sweet brunette in her mid-twenties who manages to look like absolute temptation in the hideously striped diner outfit cocks her hip as she stands. She’s got curves like a coke bottle, hair way too long and loose to be up to diner regulations. Her lips are painted hooker red as she directs her attention towards Dean. 

“Any suggestions…  Katie?” Dean leers with a dirty smirk as he addresses her by the name displayed on the bright name tag resting too close to her breast. It's too close for Sam to even look at without feeling like an absolute creep but, it seems to be no problem for Dean.  

“Cherry pie is my personal favorite.” She smiles back completely aware of Dean’s gaze and pushes her breasts a little closer to Dean’s face.

“Oh, what a coincidence, it happens to be a favorite of mine as well. I’ll take one slice sweetheart. Extra whipped cream.” 

“I’ll be right back with your order.” She completely ignores Sam as she leaves with a wink and a sway of her hips.

Sam watches the exchange with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils trying to keep down his obvious jealousy. It happens no matter where they go, it’s like Dean is a magnet for anything in or out of a skirt.

Dean turns his attention back to Sam and the flirtatious smile slides off his face instantly replaced with a stern glance.

“Sam, knock it off.” There’s a clatter of plates and cups as they suddenly drop from where Sam has been making them float a few inches off the table.

“Fuck, Dean. I didn’t mean to.” Dean’s easy smile slides right back into place like it never left.

“It’s no problem, Sammy. We all know you’re just a jealous little bitch, but it’s your ass my dick goes up at the end of the night. Nothing to worry about.”

When the waitress comes back with the pie and trips, seemingly over nothing, spilling the very last piece of cherry pie directly all over Dean’s front, Sam pretends to be surprised as he hands Dean napkins to wipe the extra whipped cream out his hair.

~~~~~~~~

They take out the Cyclops that night. 

It was hiding in a sewer, which is apparently a popular spot for monsters to congregate. Although it had strength and size on its side, it’s lack of depth perception made it a pretty easy takedown.

After Sam’s knife had gotten lost in the struggle, Dean managed to stab it in the eye while uttering, _Sorry we couldn’t see eye to eye._ That earned a bitch face from Sam while the monster dissipated in a burst of yellow steam that smelled suspiciously of pot.

Hopped up on adrenaline and minimal injuries (and perhaps a bit of residual marijuana cloud dust), Sam pulls Dean in for a kiss, coaxing his lips open with insistent tongue. Dean moans into the kiss grabbing Sam’s hair and tugging lightly which elicits a low groan out of Sam in return.

“As much as I’m enjoying this, I’d rather we get back to the motel. Cause I’m down for a lot of things, but fucking in a sewer doesn’t really make the list,” Dean pulls back from Sam, mischief written into the lines around his eyes.

Sam cuffs him in the back of the head and Dean pushes him back and they head out of the sewer into the Impala.

~~~~~~~~

“Damn, Sammy. Did you see how I took down that bastard though? God, I’m like a modern-day Hercules.” Dean’s on the bed, shirt and boots off, legs crossed and hands behind his head while gazing at Sam through half-lidded eyes.

“You sure are, barely even puked when you noticed the slime on the dagger afterward. Want a beer?”

“Yes, honey. I would love a beer. God, you are like the perfect little housewife. You get me beers and keep my dick warm. What more could a man want?”

“Not sure any man sucks his 'housewife's' dick as enthusiastically as you, Dean, but that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a while. I know it must’ve been hard for you,” Dean throws his head back laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He doesn’t even notice Sam slip two Benadryl into the beer bottle.

“No need to get so bitchy. C’mere babe.” Sam comes over with the beer in hand, straddling Dean as he hands the bottle to his brother.

“You know I hate it when you call me that.” Sam leaves a trail of kisses from Dean’s neck down to his chest. "I'm not a girl."

“Really? I hadn't noticed," Dean takes a swig of his beer. "Not thirsty Sammy?”

“No, I’m craving something else.” Sam’s path gets lower and lower as he reaches Dean’s navel, dipping his tongue into his belly button.

“And what would that be?”

Sam sits up and gives his best dirty smile. “I think you know exactly what.”

“Oh, fuck.” Dean throws back the beer with two heavy swallows and places it on the nightstand as he rolls Sam over. 

The sex is rough but playful. Laughter echoes through the room interrupted with low moans and accented by the wet slap of skin on skin.  Dean’s rhythm is unrelenting and lights up every nerve in Sam’s body. Constantly on the edge of coming, but unable to because of the words Dean mutters into his ear as he’s grinding deep into Sam.  _Don’t come, Sam. Don’t come until I fucking tell you to._ It ends in mutual overwhelming pleasure. Dean comes bare and deep inside, stripping Sam’s dick with everything he’s got as he stutters his way through the words “C-come, _fuck,_ Come for me, Sammy.”

Sam comes hard, ropes of come shooting between their bodies, white and sticky, clenching around the pulsing dick inside him. His high mewls wind down to low groans and Dean slips out and rolls over. Sated and exhausted with the pills finally kicking in, he falls into sleep easily and quick. His arm drapes over Sam’s waist automatically tugging Sam's back against his chest. 

Waiting until Dean's breath completely evens out, Sam begins to move. He quickly removes the arm, wipes himself clean, gets dressed and leaves Dean softly snoring in the motel room as he closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter, but I might be able to put out 2 chapters this week depending on how much I write, but at least the one update on Sunday! I truly appreciate any kudos and comments from y'all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suprise Wednesday Chapter! Shoutout to ereynolds, dmartins, and RubyElysian for commenting, y'all really helped a girl feel motivated and voila, an extra chapter. I seriously appreciate every small comment given. I can't promise an extra chapter every week, but I'll definitely be posting this Sunday and every Sunday as usual.

“Where is he?”

“I have no clue who you're talking about.”

“Okay, let’s try this again.” Sam’s hand, outstretched, slowly curls itself into a fist. The man against the dirty alley wall writhes in silent agony.

“Where. The. Fuck. Is. Azazel?” Each terse word is punctuated by a jolt through the man’s body. His irises slot over, replaced by black that spreads throughout the entirety of the eye as the pain increases. As soon as Sam relents, the demon laughs, deep and dark, eyes slowly returning back into their original startling shade of blue. He lifts his head to stare defiantly at Sam.

“Even if I knew, _Sam Winchester,_ ” he draws out the words like he’s tasting each syllable, “Why the fuck would I tell you?”

“Because then, maybe I’ll go easy on you.” Sam smiles slow, promises gleam in the white of his teeth.

“Oh, you’ll think I’ll break like all of those other pathetic fuckers did? I know all about your little crusade, Sam Winchester. I’m not some weak bitch you can break down, especially to the likes of you.”

Crusade.

That’s a new one.

He likes the sound of it.

Ever since the day that his brother forced him into this life, he’s done everything in his power to get free from it. It was obvious from the start that Dean would never voluntarily let him leave. So, the only way was to break the curse by himself, by whatever means necessary.  

As much as he hates his brother for what he’s doing, the thought of killing or even hurting Dean is not an option. It will never be an option. Ever.

So, he had to look for other ways.   

In the first couple of month after "The Big Incident", as Sam likes to dub it, there were short lapses of time when where they weren’t in the immediate vicinity of each other. Sam had spent the time training and perfecting his powers in any way he could. 

He would make a glass float to him or make himself levitate a few inches off the ground. He eventually moved on to larger things: a desk, a bed, once even a car, just trying to exert perfected control instead of the usual chaotic randomness that came with his powers. 

But that alone wasn’t enough.

Three months after his 18th birthday, he ran into a demon outside of a gas station inhabiting the body of his 12th-grade history teacher.

~~~~~~~~ 

_“No need to be afraid, Sammy. I’m here to help,” Eyes slide from dark brown to pitch black and the demon holds his hands out in supplication._

_“Don’t call me that and what the fuck could you do for me? You’re lucky I don’t kill you where you stand,” Sam hides his fear behind faux bravado. He learned from the best._

_The demon looks unperturbed as he continues on easily. “You don’t know how to kill me, but I could teach you. And… I could help you with your little Dean problem.”_

_“How do you know- why are you- why should I believe a word you say?”_  

_“Simple, Sammy. I could’ve killed you with a snap of my fingers, but instead, I chose to inhabit this empty vessel as a sign of trust. Your teacher, poor Marcus, had an unfortunate car accident and no one was home when I slipped into his body," he taps on his head a couple of times to illustrate the point, "So, I thought it’d be the perfect meatsuit to talk to you with.”_

_“How do you even expect me to believe you about Mr. Grundy? And, that doesn’t even answer half of my questions,” Sam glances back at the gas station door, both dreading and anticipating Dean’s arrival. "Why would you want to help me?"_

_“I couldn't really tell what your questions were over all that pathetic stuttering, but that's beside the point. Helping you helps me. We both want the same thing. Azazel dead.” Mr. Grundy’s eyes go dark at the mention of that name. Sam chooses to push past his fear and ask the most obvious question._

_“Who’s Azazel?”_

_“The man who did this to you.” he makes a sweeping motion towards Sam._

_“What’s ‘this’? The fact that I can move things with my mind? The fact that I have to listen to every single thing my brother tells me? The fact that ever since I was six months old, my whole entire life has been a shit show? Fucking clarify! I don’t have time for this cryptic bullshit.”_

_"All of it.”_

_“All of it?” Sam’s breath catches on the last word._  

_“Yes. And his death is the only way to fix it, to get justice, to break your little obedience curse.”_

_“And how exactly does Azazel being dead benefit you?”_

_“He’s always been out for my head. Call it jealousy. When he’s out of the picture, I can finally stop hopping around from vessel to vessel and just be me.” The demon does a little twirl, smiling wide. It looks odd in his current body. Mr. Grundy was a rather solemn man with not a lot of time for displays of theatrics, but Sam’s too distracted by the demon’s plans to give it much attention._  

_“And do what? Wreak havoc and chaos on the human race?”_

_“Trust me when I say this; anything I do, plan to do or even dream of doing absolutely pales in comparison to what Azazel has planned.”_

_“And what's that?” Sam's on the edge of his metaphorical seat when the bells above the gas station door let out a soft jingling._ _Sam glances behind him to see the familiar leather jacket and bow-legged strut. Whipping back around, Sam finds the demon gone without a trace._

_“Looking for someone, Sammy?”  Dean ruffles Sam’s hair as he passes by to refill the gas tank._

_Sam cautiously smiles. “No, just thought I saw someone I knew from high school.”_

_For one of the first times since his attempt to leave for Stanford, Sam allows himself to feel a little hope._

~~~~~~~~ 

Ever since that day, Marcus, as he prefers to be called, drops by to teach Sam lessons involving his powers. He started with the basics and eventually moved onto bigger things like manipulating and exorcising demons until he had enough power to start getting intel on Azazel, which leads them back to the current situation. 

“I’m not gonna spill state secrets for some bitch boy who thinks he can intimidate me with his little psychic powers. I mean, what would your brother think if he found out you’ve been sneaking out behind his back, Sammy? Would he punish you?” the demon grins, animalistic which looks out of place on the human face.

“Don’t talk about my brother.”

“Oh, I know all about you and your brother. How you’re forced to listen to every little word he says, yet you still drop to your knees and suck his cock of your own free will, like some desperate whore. Word spreads fast in hell. I've always wondered if you were any good. You wanna give me a preview, sweetheart? I’m sure I can m-” The demon’s mouth opens and closes on silent words as Sam twists his hand through the air, cutting off the speech.

“You wanna know how I’ve been doing this for well over a year without even getting close to being caught? It isn't my mouth or ass that keeps it in check, it's me. It’s because _every_ single demon who’s ever crossed my path is either too scared, or too dead. So, you may have stupid rumors and gossip, but no one has the full truth because those who even got a glimpse... die.” The demon’s face twist in wordless shock.

“Oh, yeah. You didn’t know? I can kill now.”

Closing his eyes, Sam gathers that stinging feeling in the pit of his stomach and concentrates on pushing it out, letting it spread and multiply until his whole body feels like it’s vibrating with the power. He molds it, shaping it with his thoughts, letting it overwhelm him as he directs it towards the creature against the wall.

A shrill scream pierces the night air, inhuman. Sam pushes down the sound with a thought and continues the assault. Re-opening his eyes, he watches as yellow sparks emanate from the body, skull outlined in lightning. With one final mental push, the light goes out leaving only the person behind, slumped on the ground. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Behind him, a middle-aged black man dressed in tweed with glasses perched on the tip of his nose glares at him. He's at odds with the alley littered with broken glass and used condoms.

“Marcus.” Sam barely acknowledges the demon behind him, wiping his nose with the back his hand and grimacing as it comes back with a smear of violent red against pale skin.

“Sam, why the hell did you just kill him like that? He could’ve had some information on Azazel!” 

Sam turns around to face the demon behind him and takes in his former history teacher. Not for the first time, he wonders if the car accident was truly an accident. It would’ve been smart, considering that Mr. Grundy was a big positive influence on him during his senior year. 

He was the one who encouraged Sam to apply for Stanford, a lot of good that did, but still, taking over the body of someone who he once admired to become some kind of Jedi-Demon Mentor has its merit. He just foolishly hopes for the sake of Mr. Grundy and the family he left behind that it really was an accident.

“He didn’t know shit Marcus; I could feel it.”

“You don’t know that.” Marcus looks tired and slightly worried about losing yet another possible lead on Azazel. Sam didn't know demons could look so tired.  

“Yeah, yeah I do.”

A wet cough interrupts their stand-off. They turn to see the former demon vessel coughing and sagging against the brick wall. He lets out a feeble cry for help. 

“Fuck,” Sam rushes down to the man who’s weak and bleeding slightly from the mouth. He checks his pulse and sags in relief at the steady thumping against his fingertips. “Marcus, get him to a hospital right now.”

“Why am I always the one left with the cleanup?” Marcus shakes his head exasperated, but with an oddly fond look in his eye that Sam doesn’t have the time or energy to dissect.

“I gotta head back, but please do everything to make sure that he’s okay. I want proof you took him to the hospital or I’m coming after you next.”

“Sure, sure.” Marcus hefts the man over his shoulder with ease and gives a mock salute before leaving the alley and Sam behind.

Sam scrubs his hand over his face, all of his exhaustion hitting him at once. God, he needs a coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Sunday! Comments and kudos are love :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic doesn't have a beta, so feel free to point out any mistakes in the comments and I'll be sure to fix them.

Sam drinks the last of the bittersweet dredges of his gas station coffee while walking towards their motel room indicated by the rusted “15” hanging crookedly on the door. Throwing his now empty cup away in the garbage can, he checks his watch. It’s about 7 AM.

Fuck.

He left around 1 AM, so it makes sense that he can feel the swell of a headache growing steadily in his temples. He rubs at them as he huffs in frustration.

There’s plenty of shitty things when it comes to Dean being able to control his entire existence. Sam could spend hours listing off the particulars of each and every one of them, but the absolute worst one is the fact that he can never be away from Dean’s side, at least not for too long.

~~~~~~~~

When Dean first told him he was never allowed to leave him, he had thought that maybe each command was like medicine. Strong, potent at first, but eventually, it would wear off bringing back the aches, pains, and freedom from a drugged existence. But it seemed like time wasn’t always a factor in this whole fucked up situation.

It was a couple of days after the inciting incident and Sam had decided he had to at least try to get away from his brother. When he was able to walk out the front door while Dean was asleep with no obvious consequences, he thought he was scot-free. About 6 hours into his escape, a mild headache had set in. He had thought nothing of it, kept running and found another motel nearby to stay at for the time being. The plan was to start figuring out his future.

Stanford was no longer an option since Dean could always track him down there, but there were always other colleges, more places he could find to establish some semblance of normality. Halfway through planning the logistics, Sam had fallen asleep. He woke up 6 hours later, his head pounding something fierce; no amount of aspirin or painkillers seemed to help.

By hour 20 of his escape attempt, he was on the bathroom floor, no longer able move from his spot on the linoleum. Cramps ravaged his body, sweat poured off him in rivulets, his head was clouded in pain and he could barely tell left from right.

Dean found him like that 4 hours later and every touch from his brother felt like cool water over scorching burns.

They fucked like that on the bathroom floor. Sam begged, clawed at Dean, trying to soothe the blistering pain. Dean whispered sweet and soft, pet names and sentiments that would’ve made Sam cringe and blush if it hadn’t been for the absolute relief Dean brought with his presence, his words, his touch.

Afterward, Sam wouldn’t even acknowledge Dean and for once, Dean didn’t force the issue. Sam slumped in the passenger side of the car and watched the white stripes on the road pass in a messy blur. He never did find out how Dean had found him so easily. It could've been the curse or it could've just been big brother instinct. He wouldn't have been surprised either way.

When they had finally started talking again, Dean had tried to break that part of the curse by adding a stipulation that Sam would just feel compelled to come back to him after 24 hours rather than feel that sort of pain again.

To test it, Sam and Dean split up for a day. Sam checked out the local library and found a nice cafe where he sat surrounded by books and a hot cup of cocoa. Dean mostly stayed at the bar hustling and drinking the shitty beer on tap. At hour 6, Sam felt the tell-tale signs of a headache. He waited for a bit, took a couple aspirin, hoping, praying it was some sort of fluke. By hour 8, it became more persistent and his last shred of hope evaporated. He officially gave up at hour 10 and headed back to the motel room. He called Dean who rushed home so fast that Sam could practically hear the tires squealing against the pavement over the phone.

When Dean finally came through the doors of the room, Sam pulled him in fast and hard, grinding and groping, practically eating him alive. With the sustained contact, the headache subsided enough for Sam to push a slightly shocked and smirking Dean away.

“Damn Sam, you missed me huh?” Dean had waggled his eyebrows, looking absolutely ridiculous yet still as charming as ever. The beer had been faint on his tongue and Sam wanted another taste. He had wanted to push their bodies together until they melded into one.

“Fuck off.” Sam had said instead as he flipped him the bird and collapsed onto the bed.

~~~~~~~~

Sam glances at his watch again to confirm the time once more. The odds of Dean being awake are really up for grabs at this point. The Benadryl should’ve helped keep him under, but with their ingrained hunter’s mentality, he could only really count on five or six hours of solid sleep, three without the pills. He doesn't trust it enough to slip Dean anything stronger; Dean would know. Besides, Benadryl doesn’t leave the groggy, heavy feeling that the pills in the med-kit do. Even if he could find some sleeping pills without those side effects, sleeping that soundly for that long is practically unheard of for most any hunter who's been on the job long enough. 

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and finds Dean sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed at Sam as he walks over the threshold.

Fuck.

“Hey, Sam,” he says it casually, but the glint in his eye says otherwise. 

“Hey, Dean.”

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere.” Dean sits up, taking a hard glace at Sam before repeating himself.

“Sam, where have you been?” Sam tries to compose himself and not let his anger seep through but he fails.

“I went out and got coffee, Dean. Are you fucking happy now?” Sam’s seething.

It’s one thing when Dean uses the curse to keep Sam's powers in check, especially in public. Once in a while, he’s even down for a little consensual power play in bed. Hell, he kind of understands why Dean forced him to stay all this time. Codependency is a bitch. But this, this is absolutely ridiculous.

“I’m a grown ass adult who is allowed to get coffee. I get that I’m trapped here in this hellhole, but when I say I was doing nothing, I was doing nothing. So instead of trying to force what you think is the truth out of me, you could try trusting me for once.” 

“Sam…”

“Save it.” Sam turns around whip-fast and exits straight through the doors he just came in. Pacing to the car, Sam takes a deep breath and sags against the unforgiving metal.

One lucky thing about this whole deal is the loopholes, because Sam did get coffee. He also happened to kill a demon with his mind in the middle of an alleyway, but Dean didn’t ask him _everywhere_ he went… just where. So, Sam told him where.

He’s managed 2 years of half-truths and excuses, but lately Dean’s been more relentless, forcing more truths out of him then he ever has before and it scares him. He has to finish this before Dean finds out, or it’s all over.

Picking himself off the concrete, he brushes over the back of his jeans to wipe the loose gravel and dirt away. Head pounding, he heads out to get another coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Sunday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gives a little more insight of Dean's past and why he makes the decisions he does. It's un-betaed and I'm tired so there's bound to be some mistakes, feel free to point them out in the comments if need me! Hope y'all enjoy :D

Dean watches the door close behind Sam and he’s suddenly jolted back into the past. It's like he's watching an 18-year-old Sam slam the door behind him with a backpack slung over defiant shoulders headed to Stanford all over again.

~~~~~~~~

**_May 2nd, 2001_ **

_He looks over to his Dad for some sort of guidance, some solution to keep his family together. They aren't a family unless they are **all** together. Him, Dad, and Sammy against the world. It’s been drilled into his head over and over that family is the most important thing in the world. And he believes it; he truly does. He knows he would still believe it even without John’s constant reminders. So why is he watching it all fall apart? _

_John scrubs his hand over his face, looking 10 years older but none the wiser as he regards Dean with weary eyes._

_“You have to go after him, Dean. Stop him, whatever it takes,”  he announces with such a finality that_ _for the first time, Dean hates his father._

_“I have to go after him? I’m his brother. You are his father, his parent, his guardian. You said we were supposed to be a family, supposed to look after each other, but I practically raised him while you were either hunting god knows what or drinking god knows where. I get that what we do is important, I really do, Dad, but so is this family and I’m tired of it.”_

_“Dean,”_

_“No! For once, let me finish. You constantly pushed him away, and you called him a freak, Dad. A friggin’ freak! For what? Giving some little girl a goddamn teddy bear? I have no idea how Sam even turned out to be so good with a sorry excuse for a father like you.”_

_The second the words fly out of his mouth, the regret hits him hard. John’s eyes are unreadable and Dean hates himself a little more._

_"Dad, look, I’m sorry. There’s just so much going on and I got overwhelmed and I-”_

_“Dean...”_

_“-I didn’t mean a word, I just let my-”_

_“Dean!”_

_“Sorry, sir.”_

_John deflates a little bit before continuing._

_“You’re right. Besides the fact that you need to watch your language around me, you’re right”_

_At a lost for words, Dean settles for a blank stare._

_“I mean, I lug my kids all over the country fighting monsters for God’s sake. I know that doesn’t earn me Father of the Year.” John let out a self-derisive chuckle.  “Sam didn’t turn out so good because of me; it was because of you, Dean.”_

_“Dad-”_

_“No, son. You’ve been there for Sam and me more times than I can count. You know, when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be- I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you, you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd... You'd say ‘It's okay, Dad.’”_

_“What?”_

_“You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should have been saying that to you. You know I put, I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy; you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you.” John’s eyes are watering juxtaposed with the wide smile he has on his face as he watches Dean._

_Contrary to popular belief, crying is abundant in the Winchester house. It tends to happen when life is a nightmare wrapped in tragedy sprinkled with angst. The thing is, it’s usually done in brooding silence, only a single tear allowed to streak down a dirty face in a dark room. It’s almost eerie to watch his dad express so much emotion, not even related to his mom but to **him**. Dean struggles to keep his mouth closed and his eyes dry. _

_“Why, why are you telling me all of this?”_

_“Because Dean, you have to go after him and stop him.”_

_“I can’t.” Dean can’t keep the whine out of his voice._

_“You can and you will.”_

_“…”_

_“Dean, I want you to watch out for Sammy.”  John’s voice is solemn and foreboding._

_“Yeah, dad, you know I will. You're scaring me.”_

_“Dean, I need you to listen… really listen and not question me.”  Dean feels his stomach drop and he’s falling, unsure of where he's going to land._

_“Ok, what?”_

_John starts to talk._

_“From the beginning, I knew that Sammy was never gonna turn out 100% normal. The demon that killed your mother, he did something to Sam that night. I'm still not sure what exactly, but the point still stands. Mary, your mom, happened to interrupt whatever was going on and she was…” John weakly inhales as he breaks off._

_“But,” John continues, “the demon has plans for your brother. These plans aren't good, Dean. He wants... he wants to turn Sam into something he's not, or maybe into something he already is. I don't know any of the specifics, but it's going to happen.”_

_Dean waits for a beat before talking. “So, what do you want me to do about it? Stop Sam from going dark side? There isn’t a single bad bone in his body. He once cheated on a math exam and turned himself in the next day.” Dean’s voice is rising, hysterical at the idea that Sam could ever be anything but good._

_“Dean, calm down. You promised you would listen to me and this, this is vital to the survival of humankind in itself.” John looks so tired, bags ever-present under red-rimmed eyes where more tears are threatening to spill._

_“…”_

_“You need to watch out for your brother, save him. And if you can’t... you need to kill him.”_

_Dean drops to his knees, the breath in his lung vanishes as he watches those silent tears finally fall and roll down his father’s face. Dean's face is a pale imitation._

_“He will listen to you, Dean. He has to. Now get him back, whatever it takes.” John takes his own duffle off the kitchen counter and begins to pack everything away neatly._

_“What are you doing?”_

_John looks over at Dean forlornly.  “I have a feeling you won’t need me anymore, and I know Sam won’t want me around for what comes next. Figured I’d do you a favor and leave on my own.”_

_“But...”_

_“No buts.” John grabs keys from the hook near the door and tosses them to Dean who catches them on reflex. “Take care of my ride, son. And take care of your brother.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

~~~~~~~~

After that, Dean had gone after Sam true to his promise and he stopped him, with just a simple command. Looking back, it was obvious that somehow John had known that Dean would have the power to control his brother. It scares him as much as it frustrates him that instead of owning up, their dad chose to be cryptid always thinking he knew better by keeping his kids in the dark.

Dean still remembers when they were younger heading out of the road to get something to eat. Sammy would inevitably ask _"What are we eating?_ " No matter what, their dad would always reply _"Food,"_ no more, no less, just the simple answer that they would be eating "food" of some sort. No matter how much Sam tried to pry, they never knew what exactly they were eating until they stopped outside of the McDonalds or some rundown diner. Dean would always go along with it, but looking back it never made a lot of sense, the constant "need-to-know' feed of information from monsters to restaurants to schools. John loved Sam and Dean, of course, but he treated them as some sort of child/soldier hybrid.

He's tried but, he hasn’t heard from his Dad since May 2nd, 2001.

Four weeks after The Big Incident, he got smashed at a local dive and drunk-dialed his dad. He had cried, yelled and cussed out his dad for putting Sam, for putting _him_ in this situation. It didn’t do shit, obviously. He never got a call back, a voicemail, an email, a letter, a fax… nothing. Just silence.

~~~~~~~~

Sometimes though, he would forget about their situation. Like always, there's rolled eyes and held back smiles when Dean tells funny jokes. There's still kisses shared between bickering about what to put on their pizza. (Pizza already has tomato sauce, Sam! Why would it need more vegetables?!). There are hunts where they work side by side, in sync, together as one being. The rush of adrenaline from the kill, the satisfaction of saving civilians, the purity of pure physical aggression. All of that usually ending in rough but gratifying sex in some seedy motel. Yeah. That's nice. 

But, sometimes, sometimes he’d see that look in Sam’s eye and know. Pure resentment, bordering hatred. It scares him more than he’d like to admit. It doesn't matter though. He has to do this. He has to keep Sam safe. No matter the consequences. No matter if Sam hates him for the rest of his life. He will keep Sam alive and good and _Sam_ with his dying breath.

But in the meantime, he does his best to limit the control he exerts over Sam. He makes sure to keep the authoritative tone out his voice and watch his words. He's promised himself that he will only use commands to keep Sam safe, to limit his powers, to make him stay. That's it. Most importantly, he will never ever try to control Sam’s emotions or memories again, if he can help it. 

~~~~~~~~

It happened once, after a simple salt and burn. A pretty waitress and Dean’s flirty smile are a dangerous combination, especially when Sam has a jealous streak the size of Texas. It had been a rough hunt and Dean was tired. The constant nagging and pointed bitch faces did nothing to ease his mood. Dean, irritated and drained, had leaned over the table and tersely whispered like a mother scolding her child, “ _Lighten up, Sammy. A little flirting has never hurt anyone.”_

Instantly, Sam’s face had transformed, a smile spreading across his face. Dimples dug holes into the apples of his cheeks and bright eyes looked back at Dean.

 _“Of course, Dean. Flirt away.”_ Sam had even winked before taking a sip of his water and digging into his salad with renewed gusto.

Dean had been confused at first but once he connected the dots, he became horrified. Sam was happy, _actually happy_ to let Dean flirt with whoever walked into his sight. He wasn't toting that fake smile, the one with cold polite eyes that Sam usually lets show when he's seething inside. He was smiling his genuine, 100% kosher, no artificial flavors or colors Sammy smile. The fact that Dean had that power terrified him, but even worse, he felt some sort of sick thrill that he pushed back into the recesses of his mind.

When he put Sam back to normal, Sam was furious. Silverware started spinning rapidly throughout the restaurant, and Dean didn’t even try to stop it. He just dragged Sam up and out of the booth and drove back to the motel in icy silence. Sam didn’t talk to Dean unless it was absolutely necessary for one full week and Dean let him. The silence cut into Dean, deep and jagged, but sometimes the only solution to Sam’s anger was to just let him ride it out. Plus, Dean knew he deserved it for even taking the slightest pleasure in the authority he has over Sam; not that he would ever tell Sam that.

After that incident, Dean managed to up his repression game even further. All of his impulses to yell even the slightest command at Sam were stifled. He found that if he uses a neutral or a joking tone he can manage to say things like “Shut up” and “Fuck off” without any consequences; because let’s be honest, it’s virtually impossible to have Sam as a brother without using those key phrases.

After months of training, testing, trial and error, and several silent treatments, he finally managed a decent grip on his so-called powers to the point that he rarely makes Sam do anything without intent.

But still he can’t deny that along with that self-loathing that comes along with commanding Sam, there’s also that spine-tingling pleasure that feels almost as good as Sam’s mouth wrapped around his dick. And he tries, _god,_ he fucking tries to limit each and every order, but it seems like Sam’s been unrulier by the week. And, after all, what’s necessary is what’s necessary.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Dean jolts out his thoughts as Sam walks back through the motel door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Sunday!


	6. Chapter 6

Sam walks back into the motel room about 3 hours later, his head pulsing from the lack of physical contact with Dean. It would’ve been worse if he hadn’t come back to the motel earlier when they had their little spat, but the pain is still unpleasantly current. When he spots Dean, the ache behind his eyes dulls from a sharp needling to a constant throb, still caustic and biting, but dispersed.

“You know… I woke up at 4 AM, tired as fuck, needing to piss like a racehorse and noticed you weren’t even in the room, Sam. So, I _know_ you were sneaking out. Probably for a decent amount of time too, considering that little headache you’ve got going on right now.” Dean gestures to Sam's head where Sam realizes that he’s been unconsciously rubbing at his temples with the tips of his fingers.  Sam quickly removes them to instead push his bangs away from his forehead.

“No need to tell me about your bathroom habits, Dean. And I already told you, I was getting coffee.” Sam doesn’t care if it’s a shitty lie. He can’t blow this, not when he’s getting so close.

“At 4 AM? For three hours?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided that more caffeine was the solution?”  Dean looks like he doesn’t believe a word. A shadow is crossing over his face and Sam knows where’s this is headed, like an inevitable car crash. The only choice is to find something softer to crash into instead of this incoming headfirst collision. He decides on a noncommittal shrug and starts to head towards the bathroom. Dean stops him with a rough hand on his shoulder and pushes him back.

“You know I’m not that fucking stupid, right? I mean, I didn’t get into Stanford, but I can tell when I’m being lied to.”

Sam remains silent. He tries to shrug him off, but Dean’s grip is steel.

“You know what, Sam," Dean raises his hands in exasperation, "I’ll let you keep this one secret. But stop treating me like I’m an idiot, ‘cause this is the one exception I’m making for you.”  

Sam’s head is ringing from his headache and his anger. He sees pure blood red and before he can stop himself, it tumbles out.

“Oh, you’ll let me keep this secret? How fucking generous of you. You shouldn’t ‘let’ me do shit. I should control my own body, my own words. If I wanna lie directly to your face, I should be able to because I’m my own person, dipshit.” He can’t hold back the words, spilling out like tannins, acidic and harsh on the tongue, “Instead, you drag me across this god-forbidden country, fighting nightmares day after day. And on the side I’m your kept whore, at your beck and call, spreading my legs with a snap of your fingers.”

It was a low blow aimed to hurt rather than reveal any sort of truth, but it doesn’t matter. The second the words leave his mouth, he feels a gamey combination of satisfaction and fear. There's fury, hot and white, in Dean’s eyes and Sam's head is pounding stronger than ever. The needling sensation comes back, full power, and his stomach is starting to cramp.

He’s aching and tired and wants nothing more to find a sharp edge to cut out all the parts of his body and soul that are dependent on Dean. Loose objects are flying around the room, knocking over lamps and banging against the walls and ceilings. It’s absolutely frustrating that no matter how powerful he gets, no matter how much he trains, his emotions can always override any semblance of self-control.

They are one of two guests renting out rooms here at the Blue Genie Inn, leaving vacancies all around them and no one around to hear a thing. At this point, Sam doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

“Drop the shit, shut the fuck up, and get on your knees.” Dean bites out. Short fragmented words are pushed through clenched teeth as Sam’s mouth slams shut. The clack of teeth are audible in the chaos of the room. The flying objects clatter to the floor and his knees shake, but he refuses to let them buckle.

“Knees. NOW.” A muted thud breaks the brief silence as Sam’s body complies with the order.

“A kept whore, huh?” Dean’s nostrils are flared in anger, but he approaches Sam with a lazy stroll that contradicts the anger on his face. “If I remember correctly, you were 16 when you crawled into my bed while Dad was out hunting and begged for my cock. Right, Sammy?”

Sam glowers at the stained carpet refusing to acknowledge Dean. A hand tangles roughly in his hair and his head is pulled up to meet clear green eyes.

“I said, Right, Sammy? Did you or did you not beg for my dick?” Dean’s voice is laced with force.

“Yes.”  

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I begged for your dick.” Sam glares into his eyes, willing anything to stop what’s unfolding, but his powers are temporality cut off. Dean releases his hair and takes a couple steps back.

“So you’re not my kept whore are you? Whores get paid. You don’t. You spread your legs because you want it, Sam. You always have and always will. Always the slut for your big brother. In fact, I bet you’re craving it right now.”

And the sad truth is that he is. He wants it so bad to lessen the pain that’s spreading through his head and he needs it to ease the cramps and nausea ravaging his stomach. But more than any of that, he wants it because it’s Dean.

Dean, the one he hates. Dean, the one he can’t help but love. No matter the scenario, curse or not, he needs his brother.

“Admit it, Sam. Admit the _truth_ and you can have it.” No matter how hard he pushes the words down, the _need_ down, it spills, forced from his mouth, like fingers were shoved down his throat.

“I want it, Dean, I want you.” he hangs his down in shame and acceptance as he speaks. 

Sam hears Dean shuffle closer and the grating sound of a zipper permeates the air. Sam casts a glance up to see Dean’s boxer-clad erection peeking through his jeans and tenting the fabric. Pre-come is leaking through.

“Then, suck me off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are enjoying, updates every Sunday. (This fic has no beta so any mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know so I can fix 'em)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally all smut. The dubious consent warnings are applicable here, fair warning.

Dean felt it the second it was getting out of control. The need to show Sam who he really belonged to, to establish dominance in some kind of fucked up sexual game, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop and for once he let that ugly part take control. As he feels Sam’s warm breath grazing through the cloth of his boxers, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Taking his dick out of his boxers, he repeats, “Suck me off, Sam. No hands allowed.”

Dean watches as Sam leans forwards clumsily, wide pink mouth opened in an “O” as he sucks in the head of his cock, tongue pressing into the slit. Dean throws his head back in pleasure as he feels his erection plump up under Sam’s ministrations.

“Fuck yeah, Sammy. Take it all, baby.”

Sam dives down, eager and sloppy, covering his cock in drool and spreading the pre-come all along his length. Dean’s not sure if the eagerness is from his command or from Sam’s need for physical touch, but it doesn’t really matter either way. The hot suction becomes too much and Dean grabs the strands of curly chestnut hair and thrusts into the hot cavern.

Sam gags and chokes and it spurs Dean on. The tight constriction of the throat working around his cock drives out thoughts of Sam’s comfort and safety momentarily as he continues to thrust with slick and smooth movements. He feels Sam’s body sag slightly from the lack of oxygen and Dean finally pulls free from his mouth. Sam’s lips are swollen and slick, drool dripping from his chin obscenely and his eyes glazed with air deprivation.

Dean drops to his knees, ignoring the mess and kisses Sam, sloppy, smashing his mouth against his. Sam’s lips are heated and sultry with use, tasting faintly of coffee and strongly of Dean. The heady combination sends Dean into a frenzy. He licks, bites and nips at Sam’s lips, moving down to his neck and focusing over his pulse point, sucking a dark hickey into the skin, marking, claiming.

Sam is pliant, eyes still glazed and hazy, accepting Dean’s attention and control. Dean moves back up to his mouth and whispers against his lips.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Sammy? Fill up your sweet little hole, baby? Want me to defile every inch of your body? Make you mine, sweetheart?”

If either Dean or Sam were in their right minds, they might cringe or laugh at the clichéd porn dialogue spewing from Dean, but neither is coherent enough to really comprehend or even care.

“Fuck yeah, Dean. Please, please, please, pl-”

Dean cuts him off with another kiss, bruising and possessive. “Get naked. On the bed, Sammy. Hands and knees.”

Sam stands up and almost immediately collapses on shaky knees; an overgrown Bambi trying to walk for the first time. He stumbles and almost falls on his 10-foot journey to the bed before taking off his clothes.  There’s no time for a slow strip down, only ripping and pulling at the buttons. He's shedding the layers of plaid shirts and shucking off jeans in a clumsy, stumbling manner. Dean would’ve laughed at the ridiculous scene, except he’s so turned on and all his blood vacated his brain for his dick. He’s solely focused on the round mounds of Sam’s butt, pert and tempting as he gets on his hands and knees, ass displayed like a bitch in heat.

Dean fumbles with the lube on the nightstand, spilling some on the surface before slicking up two fingers and positioning himself behind Sam. 

“I would eat you out if I could, sweetheart. Bury my face in that little sweet pink of yours and dig my tongue into your little hole until you cream yourself, but I gotta get inside you. I can’t wait anymore, baby.”

“Yeah, yeah, please.” Sam is nearly incoherent with lust and without preamble Dean pushes both digits into the pucker and begins to move them in and out, stretching and spreading.

Sam pushes against the fingers taking them deeper, moans ranging from low groans to high pitched whines. He must be feeling pain from the abrupt intrusion, but it doesn’t show in the way he bears down on the fingers with increased vigor. Dean adds another finger and curls them upwards to find that special spot. Sam convulses when he finds it, clenching down hard around the fingers, only emitting those high whines now.

“Dean, please fuck me, I can’t... Fuck,” Sam breaks off and Dean brushes over that spot again and grins down when it elicits more pleas out of Sam.

Sam’s flushed with a fine layer of sweat coating his body, back arched, hair damp and curling up at the ends. He’s sin defiled.

Dean removes his fingers and watches the pink gape close and reopen searching for something to fill it. Dean reaches for the lube once more to slick his dick with a few jerks and a swipe over the head.

“On your back, I wanna see your face when I fuck you.”

Sam complies, eyes blown wide and unfocused with desire. Dean pulls at Sam’s legs and maneuvers his ass to the edge of the bed where Dean stands, still fully dressed with his cock out through the denim of his jeans, erect and weeping.

“Beg for my cock, Sammy. Tell me how much you want it in your hole, in that little cunt of yours.” Sam’s forehead crinkles at the use of the word “cunt” and even Dean’s not sure where it came from, but it felt right, dirty and slightly derogatory, but right. There's no time to ponder on it because when his cock brushes against the underside of Sam’s thigh, the feeling distracts Sam back into the abrupt sexual frenzy.

“I need it so badly, please. I want it in me. I need it in me. I need it to fill me up. I want it all inside. Just for you, only for you, Dean.”

Satisfied and thrumming with energy, Dean lines up the head of his cock with Sam’s entrance and watches entranced as Sam’s hole spreads and opens accepting every last thick inch.

No matter how many times they do this, it still feels as new and wonderfully intimate and erotic as the very first time. Moving his eyes up, he watches as Sam’s mouth falls open in a heady combination of pleasure and pain as he bottoms out.

Dean starts a steady, deep rhythm giving Sam no time to adjust or recover from the initial thrust. He pounds in hard and sure, carving out just a space for him, making sure that Sam will feel it, feel  _ him _ tomorrow. Everything is absolutely perfect. Dean is still dressed while Sam is completely naked and vulnerable under him. 

Sam is mewling like a drowning kitten, weak and slightly pathetic as Dean dominates him, slick plunge after slick plunge, driving in harder and deeper. Sam opens his eyes. His pupils are wider and dilated with a thin ring of hazel still visible. He’s staring at Dean with a look that conveys too many emotions to break down, emotions he doesn’t wanna break down. So, Dean doubles down on the pace until Sam speaks, breathy and barely audible over Dean’s grunts and the wet slap of skin on skin.

“I’m gonna come, Dean, holy shit, I’m gonna… fuck.” Sam grips the sheets hard, long cock untouched and bouncing against his stomach with the force of Dean’s thrust.

“No, you’re not. You’re not coming until I _fucking_ let you.” Dean feels a thrum of power, overwhelming and intoxicating as he issues the order. It flows into his veins, more potent than any drugs he’s ever tried and it feels too fucking good.

“Please, please, please, please, please…” Sam pleads, overcome with the need for release.  Dean pushes Sam back further onto the bed and climbs on top of him, pushing right back in. It elicits a gasp and a groan from both of them.

“Fuck, fuck… _ Sammy _ . So fucking tight! I can pound your hole so loose and leaking with my come and then I can come back and fuck you the next day and you’re still as tight as a virgin. Just gripping my cock like you’re starving for it, huh? God, I fucking love you.” Dean leans forward biting and scraping against Sam’s neck with his teeth, leaving marks and bruises that’ll be visible tomorrow.

Traveling further down, he takes a nipple into his mouth, mouthing and biting at the brown nub, tongue soothing the sting. Sam, on the other hand, has switched from begging to cursing, deep and mean.

“Fuck Dean, I swear to god, let me... Fuck! Let me come you f-fucking bastard. God. FUCK!”  Dean laughs around the nipple he’s currently abusing before releasing it and placing his mouth back on Sam’s

“You can come now. Come right on my cock. Come from nothing but my cock,” Dean whispers faint and gentle contrasted by the choppy, harsh rhythm of his hips.

Sam coils like a spring and then shakes apart from the magnitude of his orgasm. His cock spurts and jerks untouched, creamy strings coating their chests, breath stuttering and uneven. His head is thrown back and his eyes are shut tight. Sam’s lower half is clenching, nearly choking Dean’s dick in the wet pressure as he unloads into Sam. The streams of come making the final thrusts even slicker and dirty, squelching sound absolutely obscene. Dean collapses onto Sam momentarily before sitting up and slowly pulling out. Sam gasps as the cold air hits his exposed hole.

Dean watches the hole wink and flex, rim red and raw with abuse and he can’t help but feel pride over the sick feeling churning in his guts. Heading to the bathroom, Dean gets a wet rag to clean up and finds Sam asleep. The lines of his face are smoothed out and his lips parted; he looks younger than he has any right to.

Dean cleans up Sam with the same diligence and dedication he has when assembling his favorite gun, making sure he’s extra gentle between the legs. He slips a pair of boxers over Sam’s long skinny legs just because he knows Sam doesn’t really like to sleep naked.

Dean trades the wet comforter for the dry one on the bed next to them. He undresses down to his boxers and slips into bed besides Sam. His chest to Sam’s back, he falls asleep with an arm slung over his brother’s waist and a crushing mixture of shame and satisfaction stirring inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has no betas so feel free to point out any mistakes. Updates every Sunday!


	8. Chapter 8

Dean wakes up to an empty bed, sheets cool where Sam fell asleep last night; panic and anger coincide in a burst of emotions. Dean hears the dry rustle of paper and turns over to see Sam sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper in hand.

The tidal wave subsides quickly replaced by the feeling of apprehension and fear as he remembers last night.

Fuck.

Sam looks over the newspaper glancing at Dean nonchalantly, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

“Finally awake, huh? Had too many beers last night, Dean?”

What the fuck is he talking about? He never even had a beer last night? Or did he? Did he just dream that whole thing up? 

Dean glances over to see a rumpled comforter on the other bed, wet spots from lube and come still darkening the fabric. The lube bottle is no longer on top of the nightstand but Dean can still see the shine of the spill. Hell, under the aroma of coffee, he can still smell the sex in the air. He looks over to see Sam’s face slightly flushed and studying the newspaper with way too much intensity. 

Oh.

Okay.

So they’re gonna do the whole thing where they pretend that last night never even happened? That’s fine. Great, even. They've done this before. In fact, the same thing happened the one and only time Sam had decided to wear lingerie. 

Sam was 17 and was finally growing into his long limbs. Dean had been so turned on seeing Sam in white satin - silk was too expensive. He acted shy and demure but from the small dirty smile, he knew he was sin personified. The little bralette covered his flat chest and the white thong was tented by Sam’s erection.

The sex had been hotter than hell and memorable for sure, but obviously, Sam had been embarrassed by it the next morning when he chose to go into some state of denial everytime Dean tried to bring it up. 

Dean had let it go, knowing that Sam would probably eventually come around to it again in his own time. Unfortunately, not long after, "The Big Incident" happened which put a real damp in the explorative part of their sex life. Sadly for Dean, it’s never come up again and he’s pretty sure it won’t for a very long time, if ever. So, if Sam wants to do the same thing with last night, well that’s fine by Dean.

Considering what he said, what he did last night, he kind of wishes he didn’t remember it all in Technicolor detail. What Sam felt like under him, giving over complete control. He can still see the marks he made, visible above the hideous orange of Sam’s shirt.”

Shit, he’s getting a semi just thinking about it. Taking a breath, Dean looks over at Sam who’s waiting for his reply, eyes searching to see if Dean’s gonna play along.

“Beer’s like a vitamin to me at this point; gonna take more than a couple of ‘em to knock me out,” He sees Sam’s body visibly relax as he realizes that Dean’s playing along, “I just needed a couple extra hours of beauty sleep. As the better-looking brother, I gotta carry on for the sake of this family’s reputation.”

Sam rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his coffee and turns back to the newspaper. Dean slips out of bed and stretches. He catches Sam watching him from the corner of vision, eyes obvious and hungry, roaming over the length of his body. He chooses to ignore it except for the small smirk he can't seem to keep off of his face. He stuffs all of his shit besides one outfit into his bag, making exaggerated movements to showcase every inch of his body.

“Gonna take a shower. Brew me a pot, eh?’ Dean gestures to the outdated coffee machine on the kitchen counter.

Sam grunts in affirmation and Dean heads to the bathroom.

The shower helps clears his mind and gives him the opportunity to get rid of his arousal. When he gets out, Sam’s still at the motel table currently browsing the comic section, which he never reads. Dean quirks his eyebrows before noticing that the coffee pot is still empty.

“Thought I told you to make me some coffee, fuckface?”

“Oops, sorry I got distracted and forgot.” Sam looks up, eyes conveying innocence, but the quirk of his mouth says otherwise.

Ah… small rebellions. Dean gets it, he really does, but why does this small nagging part demand otherwise? In retaliation, Dean swipes Sam’s coffee cup and swallows down the remaining lukewarm coffee in a quick gulp.

“Hey! That was my coffee, jerk.”

“Should’ve made me some then, bitch.” Dean winks before belching loudly and throwing the Styrofoam in a perfect arch into the trash can.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m a gift. So what’s new with Garfield?” Dean gestures at the orange tabby cat featured in the center of the newspaper.

“He’s having gastric bypass surgery.” Sam monotones as he shuts and refolds the newspaper into a neat square.

“Really?”

“No dumbass, but I found a case.”

“You could’ve just led with that instead of leading me on. I always thought that fat-ass cat needed to get his shit together.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sam says wrinkling his nose trying to mask his smile with feigned annoyance, “You practically live off grease, sugar, and carbs alone. You and Garfield deserve each other.”

“The difference is, I deserve it,” Dean flicks Sam in the ear as he stands, stiffness obvious in his gait. Dean bites back a smile as Sam reaches out to shove at Dean but he misses as Dean skirts away in the opposite direction, “I save lives, hunt monsters. Garfield sits his lazy ass around all day tormenting a dog.”

“Sure, Dean…”

“It’s true, don’t deny it.”

“I’m not denying anything.”

“Well, it kind of sounds like you are.”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

“When your dick’s in my mouth.” Dean regrets the words, thinking it’ll bring up last night, but Sam seems unaffected besides the trademark annoyance written on his face. Good. 

“So where’s the case, Sammy?”

“Millsboro, Delaware.”

“And it’s our kind of thing?”

“A hundred percent.”

“A hundred percent huh? What is it?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s get going, Garfield” Sam grabs his duffle off the bed and puts on the faded brown jacket that was resting on the back of the chair. Dean grabs his stuff and opens the door with an exaggerated sweeping motion of his arm.

“After you, Odie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates Every Sunday!


	9. Chapter 9

Looking from the outside, you would never guess anything has changed with Sam and Dean after “The Big Incident.”

Dean is still the overly cocky playboy with a devilish smirk, mischief written into the bright green of his eyes. His freckles are still faint and endearingly balanced by the strong cut of his jaw, all tempered by his sense of duty and killer instinct.

Sam is still as sharp with a knife as he is with his words. Cutting people down with a simply put phrase complete with the power to build them back up with an empathetic smile framed by sincere dimples. Stubbornness and resentment are still wrapped around his natural drive to help those around him while his ever-dying need for independence and normalcy challenges every decision he makes.

But it’s clear something’s changed at the core of their dynamic, besides the obvious.

Sam was always to one to initiate, the one who tended to wear his heart on his sleeve and hope bright in his hazel eyes. He was the one who got Dean to finally give into his emotion, his desires. He got him to fall into the sin basket of incest and overwhelming pleasure.

Whenever Dean repressed his emotions, choked by his own toxic masculinity, Sam was the one to push at him until that dam burst, free-flowing and strong. Dean had claimed he kept those walls up because it was better, safer, for the both of them if he kept some things to himself. But, Sam knew keeping that shit locked up that tight was just hurting him. 

And it wasn’t just in their relationship; it was with everything. Sam pushed Dean to get his GED when he dropped out of high school. He pushed him to take up that part-time mechanic job he loved back in high school. Sam pushed him just so that Dean could reach just a fraction of the abundant potential he tapped down for the sake of duty.

When he would push Dean, it wasn’t uncommon for there to be pushback: sometimes swift and raging, sometimes burning and slow, sometimes with words, sometimes with fists. Sam would just bite back tears and keep pushing until Dean broke and Sam was there to put him back together. This time leaving out those parts that weighed Dean down, unwieldy and rotted, making him lighter. 

Happier.

But after everything that had happened,  it was Sam’s turn to hide behind walls, build up his barriers strong. There was no place to be vulnerable anymore, to allow Dean to slip through, not after everything that had happened.

Yet, Dean could still coax and pull those thoughts out of Sam. With or without the curse, Dean was able to push and squeeze Sam like he was a porous sponge teeming with liquid. Maybe it was years of repression that gave Dean that insight, that unnatural power to read Sam easily like a cheap skin mag.  Dean is the one who breaks him apart, just to put him back together in his own image. Twisting and molding Sam into his creation. 

Sam knows with all certainty, that if Dean hadn’t compelled him, he still wouldn’t have been able to stop himself last night. In fact, he was glad Dean forced his hand, pissed as hell, but relieved in the same note. Now, he has someone to blame… besides himself. Sometimes- Most times, it grates him how codependently fucked he truly is.  He knows Dean is currently bubbling with shame and guilt, and Sam plans to capitalize on that with a mixture of spite and necessity.

“So why are we headed to Millsboro?” Dean questions over the purr of the engine, slight hesitancy evident in his tone.

“So, get this…” 

Sam had stumbled on a case in Millsboro, Delaware, a small town defined by its paltry population of a little over 4,000. It boasts its town slogan as a “Family-friendly Place to Live and Play.” 

The small town has been at the center of controversy for Delaware citizens because of supposed alien abductions. The only reason the news wasn’t widespread was simply due to the fact that most of America forgets that Delaware even exists. The Millsboro Police Department has been getting frequent reports of citizens being surrounded by an intense purple light and after reemergence, victims seem to develop cases of narcolepsy varying by severity. 

So far, there haven’t been any deaths or injuries except for a young man who after a couple days after the “abduction” fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a house. Luckily, he had been driving 10 mph in his neighborhood and his foot had slipped off the gas pedal when he fell asleep leaving him with minimal injuries.  Police are stumped and all accounts by the victim’s experiences seem to be “too absurd” for them to follow-up on. 

“Come on, Sam. I mean, I’m all for some aliens, but this is some low grade shit. I’ve heard that it’s Wendigo season in northern Michigan. That’s where we’re really needed, not in Delaware fucking around with some fairy lights and narcoleptics.”

“Dean,” Sam fails to keep the whine out of his voice, “people could get seriously hurt. I mean, what if he had kids in the car and he was on the highway instead of a neighborhood?”

“They have highways in Delaware? I thought it was all dirt roads and horse-drawn carriages.” 

Sam ignores Dean attempt at humor choosing instead to glare in contempt. 

“Ugh, fine.” Dean pounds his hands against the steering wheel in exasperation. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to roleplay the X-Files. You can be the Scully to my Mulder.” Dean waggles his eyebrows in an excessive manner. 

“I’m not Scully, you’re Scully.” 

“No, you’re the red-headed women.”  Before Sam can reply, Dean blasts the music, bass rumbling through the leather of the chair and drum solo smacked against the steering wheel. 

Sam lays back against his chair and rubs his temples to try and ease the inevitable headache that Led Zeppelin at 120 dB brings. 

~~~~~~~~

“Hello, Agents…”

“Sambora and Torres,” Dean replies easily as an older woman with tawny brown hair neatly coiffed opens the door to let them in. This is the sixth place Sam and Dean have visited since entering Millsboro searching for information. 

The first being the police who were incompetent as they were trusting, never even asking to see their badges but taking the word of two random men dressed in cheap suits. With the files in hand, they were able to talk to three other victims, including the one who had been in the car crash. They all described being transported to another place after being engulfed in the purple light. They described fields of lavender and an overwhelming feeling of peace. One of the interviewees had fallen asleep during their line of questioning and Sam had to stop Dean from drawing dicks on the man’s face. 

The fifth stop had been the doctor who had treated the man in the car crash and diagnosed the subsequent case of narcolepsy. He wasn’t much help from what they already had, but he did lead them to one additional witness who wasn’t in the police files. 

“How did you know we were with the FBI?” Sam asks stepping through the doorway. They usually have to flip out their badges before people let them in their houses. 

“The suits, the demeanor, the fact that it’s a small town and word spreads fast. Plus, I knew sooner or later some Federal Investigators from Area 51 would come down,” she leads them to a living room before offering them tea that they kindly accept. 

“Area 51? You’ve got it wrong, ma’am. We’re trying to keep it on the down low but we were thinking it’s some sort of terrorist technology being tested in small towns around America.” Dean gives Sam a sly look from the corner of his eye and Sam barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Sugar?” 

Sam and Dean nod in unison and she scoops 2 spoonfuls into each cup before continuing. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a single soul. I can keep a secret. You’re lucky you came to be instead of Deborah. Such a loud mouth on that one.” She laughs as she winks, conspiratorially.

Before Dean can open his mouth again, Sam continues on. “We’re looking for a Steven Ross. We were told this was his residence.” 

“Oh, of course. He’s my son. I’m Dianne, Dianne Ross. He was taken by the terrorists too. He's been very hush-hush about the lady he saw while he was on the other side. Wouldn’t even let me tell the police, doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s ‘crazy.’” 

“He saw a woman?” Sam asks, eyes wide as he trades a look with his brother. None of the other witnesses had mentioned anything about seeing anything but flowers, all their other memories too hazy.

“Yep,” she clucks, pouring more tea into their cups. “Not that seeing a woman would do him much good though.”

“Huh?” 

“Oh, I forgot to mention, Stevie is gay. Nearly stopped my heart when he told me. I mean, I believe that it’s no ones business who they get it on with, so to speak, but I was absolutely devastated about never getting a grandkid. Deborah’s always talking about her grandkids like they invented sliced bread. Ha! Baker, that’s the oldest one, is nearly 7 and can’t even spell his own name. But what can you expect, they are her grandkids after all. But Stevie and his boyfriend, Hector, are settling down soon, getting their own place together and everything. They are even talking about adoption!” She squeals, oblivious to the incredulous looks. 

“I told them that I would be fine with any kind of baby. Hector is leaning towards a baby girl from China because of the overpopulation going on there. Some women just can’t keep their legs closed.” She trails off laughing to herself, unaware of how offensive she’s being. “Of course, I agreed wholeheartedly. Hector has such a huge heart, my son is lucky to have him. Told him he better not ruin it for me... or him, of course. Plus, imagine it. A little baby girl… Oh! I’m gonna make her the prettiest little dresses and do her hair all nice with pink bows.” Her eyes are shining with promise and Sam can’t help but be scared for the little girl in question. 

“You would think that with Stevie being queer, I would’ve had the opportunity to dress him up and stuff, but that boys abhors pink and can’t dress any better than your average straight man.” 

Sam doesn’t know if he can take it much longer. The woman seems sweet, terribly misguided, but she seems to be trying as best as she can. Which counts for something, he guesses, but he needs to stop this before Dean burst his kidney from keeping in his laughter. 

“That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Ross but we were wondering-”

“Call me Dianne.”

“Ok,  _ Dianne _ ,”  she preens at the nomenclature and Sam can’t suppress his blush before continuing, “Where would your son be at right now?” 

“Oh, Stevie's at Hector's apartment in Rehoboth Beach, which is about 30 minutes from here, but he starts his shift at the Double L at 6 PM. It’s one of those gay bars. Apparently, they started hiring go-go dancers and my Stevie got hired as the lead one. His cage is right in the center of the room! I tried to take pictures his first night there but he was embarrassed and wanted me to leave. It was just a bunch of gay men so, it’s not like I actually had to worry about being felt up or anything. I don’t have the right equipment for that.” 

Dianne keeps talking, gesticulating wildly. 

“Always told him he could’ve been a dancer if he wanted to. But he never listens to his mother. Nice boys like you, I’m sure you do everything your moms ask of you?”  Sam flashes a tight smile as he feels Dean tense up next to him for a split second, barely perceptible, before recovering quickly. 

“We sure do. Thank you so much for your help, Dianne. It’s been a pleasure. Could you tell Steven that we’ll be hanging by the bar around 6 and that we would like to question him then? Here’s our card if you or Steven have any questions.” After handing her the card, Sam and Dean stand up in sync. 

“Of course, I’ll call him up soon.” She smiles and ignores their outstretched hands for tight hugs. “You boys take care.” 

“You too, ma’am” 

They leave through the front door, twin exhales of relief as they escape. 

“What a crazy old bat.” Dean's loosening his tie as he gets into the driver's seat. “Poor Stevie.” 

Sam hums in agreement.

“Why’d you make up that ridiculous story about terrorists, man?” Sam says.

“She seemed like the type who would buy it, plus you can’t tell me it wasn’t clever.” 

“It wasn’t clever, at all. There was literally no reason for it.” 

“Fuck off.” Dean pauses looking lost in thought for a moment, “Whaddya think Double L stands for? Lusty Lesbians? Licking Labia? Lewd Love?”

“I’m pretty sure they cater mostly to men.” 

“What? Ew. So there’s gonna be no lesbians tonight!? I don’t wanna be around sweaty men all night, that’s too fucking gay.” Dean looks more devastated than the time in 10th grade he hooked up with “Titty Terry” just to discover she stuffed her bra. 

“Are you serious right now? If Stevie- Steven is dancing tonight and it’s a gay bar, pretty sure it’s gonna be mostly gay men like it usually is, but they do have girls nights occasionally, just not tonight. Also, you are gay, very gay. Why do you think you fuck me all the time?!” 

“Number 1: you’re my brother so it doesn’t count. And B: Even if it did count, which it doesn’t, you fill up my gay quota so I don’t need more men in my life. Also, you kinda look like a girl so-”

“Look who’s talking!”

“Hey! My jawline is way too strong to be a girl.” 

“Yeah. Thinking about it, you wouldn’t look that good in drag.” 

“Hey! I look good in everything.”

“Make up your mind, Dean.”

“Hey!-”

“What now!?” 

“How do you know so much about gay bars?” 

“...”

“Sam!”

“Ok, fine! When I was 16 and we got into that big fight and broke up-”

“Don’t word it like that, it makes it seem like we’re boyfriends or something.” 

“If you don’t shut up, I’m not gonna finish.” 

Dean holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Continue.”

“Long story short, I was 16 and bitter with angst at our fall out so, I snuck into a gay bar looking for someone to take it out on.” 

“What?” Dean's voice drops low, dangerous. His whole entire demeanor changes, a shadow casting over the planes of his face. Sam realizes his mistake and backtracks.

“Whoa, calm down, Dean. That’s what I was trying to tell you. It was girls’ night, actually, girls’ week. By the time it was over, we were already back togeth- I mean, we had stopped fighting.”

The look in Dean’s eye fades from murderous intent to a simmering anger. 

“So you were looking for someone else to fuck when you couldn’t have my dick.” Dean’s says it as a statement leaving no room for question. His face is downcasted and his teeth are clenched and grinding. Sam’s mind races trying to find a solution to this stupid  _ stupid _ problem he created. God, his brother is such a fucking hypocrite!

“Dean, it was a while ago. I was young and stupid. Plus, you flirt with everything that moves.” 

“That's flirting, it's harmless. You were looking for someone to fuck, someone to replace me. And…. It was only 4 years ago, Sam!” Dean’s raises his voice suddenly. The car swerves to the side before Dean rights it. Sam's voice raises right along with him. 

“And 2 years ago, I was going to Stanford! Time changes people, Dean. It was stupid and I was stupid but you broke my heart when I was 16. You were the first and only person I ever loved. Literally, the only thing I ever knew. How the _fuck_ did you expect me to react?” 

Dean’s staring blankly ahead at the road, knuckles white with pressure against the steering wheel. 

“Pull over,” Sam says through gritted teeth. Dean keeps driving. 

“Pull over, Dean. Now!” Dean yanks the wheel hard to right and Sam almost hits his head against the window. Dean lets the engine idle for a few tense moments before he turns off the ignition. They’re in the middle of an empty highway with nothing but the sounds of heavy breathing between them. Dean stares straight ahead refusing to acknowledge him.

Sam reaches over and Dean actually flinches back, thinking Sam’s going to hit him. Sam presses their lips together, chaste and whisper-soft before pulling away. They stare at each other before Dean pulls him back in for another kiss, all tongue, messy and wet. Teeth clack on the impact and Dean grabs at Sam's face, tight with possession. They swap spit, losing air with every second until Sam pulls away, chest heaving slightly. Dean looks unsettled as if Sam’s still about to reel back his fist. 

“I love you, Dean. As much as I hate you for what you do sometimes, I love you and I need you to understand that. What happened was years ago and nothing actually _happened_. It’s always been you and at the end of the day, it always will be you. You’re the most important person in my life. And if you say some dumb shit because what I said was too "chick-flicky" or because I used the “L word”, I swear to God, I will actually hit you. So can we please just not do this right now.”

Dean licks his lips slowly, processing Sam’s words before nodding slowly. 

“Yeah, Sammy. I can do that.” His voice sounds hoarse and thick. 

“Good.” Sam nods too. “What time is it?” The clock in the Impala has been busted since forever and Dean’s never gotten around to changing it. Dean glances at his watch. 

“It's 2:10.” 

“And Steven doesn’t dance until 6, right?”

“Uh-huh. Why?” 

“Good. We need to get a motel for the night, but I wanna get it now.” 

“Sure, yeah. But we can get it cheaper if we wait until after 3 PM,” Deans eyebrows knit in confusion at the urgency in Sam’s tone. It’s obvious he doesn’t understand what Sam wants so Sam grabs Dean face amd kisses him softly on the lips with the barest tease of tongue.

“I want you to get the motel now and then I want you to blow me, nice and sloppy.” Sam places another soft kiss at the base of his neck. “And then, I want you to fuck me into the mattress until I scream.”

Dean turns the keys into the ignition and the car lurches back onto the road, screeching with the sudden press of the accelerator. Sam laughs and rolls down the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates every Sunday! I appreciate every kudos and comment :D


	10. Chapter 10

The music thrums through the room, bass boosted and heavy, making the glasses at the bar shake slightly with each beat. Sam’s stirring the Cosmo that Dean ordered for him while giggling through his teeth.

Dean post-coitus tends to vary with the day: sometimes touchy and lethargic, other times overly hyper and rambling. Usually, another round can cool him down, but they didn’t have enough time because Sam insisted on going shopping for some clothes for tonight since everything they have is either plaid or camo. So now, Sam is stuck with an overly touchy yet overly energetic Dean who thinks it’s hilarious to order “girly drinks” for his brother.

“Ok, so I have to admit, there are some perks about being at a gay club.” Dean’s mouth is hot near Sam’s ear as he leans in to be heard.

Sam smirks, “And what’s that?”

“Well, first, we look super hot in these clothes.” Dean says and Sam has to admit, they are a lot more flattering than what they usually wear.

Instead of baggy jeans, Dean got a pair of dark wash “jeggings” that hug every muscle in his thighs and actually showcase his ass decently. He’s got a flat, wide ass, truth be told, and the jeans he usually wears don’t really help his case, but these jeans actually lift it a little. It’s a miracle as far as Sam’s concerned. Dean’s also wearing his own black leather boots that reach a couple inches past his ankles. Sam was lucky enough to be able to decorate them with a few adhesive metallic-looking spikes to help make Dean blend in. Dean complained the whole time until Sam told him it gave him a “dom, toppy look” and then Dean went right along with it.

Sam matches with a lighter wash on his jeans that are tighter along his thighs and ass showcasing his smaller but rounder ass (he does squats 3 times a week, thank you very much). They end mid-calf and his footwear consists of some black off-brand type converse.

They are both wearing tight T-shirts, pecs hugging the fabric, but whereas Sam’s is a dark red, Dean went for white. Dean’s outfit is finished with a black pleather jacket that actually fits compared to their dad's oversized leather jacket. Sam would’ve gotten one, but he tends to sweat in crowded places like this.

“Yeah, remind me to buy you way more jeggings.” Sam also notices the fact that Dean dick is perfectly outlined in the fabric, for literally anyone to see.

“Haha, no. But you know what else I like about these clubs?”

“The two dollar beers?”

“That... and the fact that I can do this.” Dean leans in, one hand traveling down to cup Sam’s ass, while the other goes around Sam’s neck to bring him down to a kiss, scorching hot and quick before Sam pulls away.

“Dude, you know we’re supposed to be FBI agents right now?!” Sam rubs at his lips trying to get the taste of cheap beer off while Dean watches.

“We’re undercover, Sammy. Plus, we could be the first gay couple of the FBI, fighting for justice and equality.” Dean raises his beer to the rainbow flag hanging above the bar.

“I’m pretty sure that would be against workplace policy.”

“So, not like anyone here knows that.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You know you love me, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Baby.”

“Shuddup.”

“Muffin top.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Yes.”

“Agents?” A man about Dean’s age saddles up to the stool next to Sam. He’s wearing a skimpy cowboy get-up that unfortunately includes assless chaps and a lasso.

Gaining his composure, Dean grabs his badge from his jacket pocket and with one hand and flips it open while reintroducing them by their Led Zeppelin aliases. The guy gives it a cursory glance before looking back at Sam and Dean. He holds out his hand.

“Steven Ross. My mom told me to look for two very attractive and tall boys and then went on to describe your auras. You two seemed to fit the bill, but that doesn’t exactly explain your outfits or why you look so young.” he shakes their hands as he talks.

“The outfits, well we’re undercover, sort of. We just didn’t want to make a big hassle and disturb everyone’s fun. It’s usually easier that way. And Sammy here,” he claps Sam on the shoulder with one hand to emphasize his point, “...he was top of his class in the accelerated program. I’ve been taking him out on cases, showing him the ropes.”

Steven nods taking it in before he settles his eyes lower. “You guys are going pretty deep undercover for just a standard interview.” Dean and Sam follow his gaze to see that Dean’s other hand is still placed on Sam’s ass. Dean snatches it back at the same time that Sam steps away.

“Uhhh-” Sam stutters, cheeks flushing red.

“No need to explain, fellas. It must be hard to do what you do and be who you are. I get it. I mean, you met my mom. Imagine trying to come out to that. I mean it all worked out; I’ve even got Hector now. And it’s crazy, I thought she was always this close-minded but loving mom, but she loves Hector more than me. And he’s half black, half Mexican, and full homo. Turns out she was just a little ignorant. She just needed to learn firsthand, I guess” Steven leans into the bar giving Sam and Dean a full view of his pale ass as he orders a beer.

“So, what do you guys want to know? I didn’t bother going to the police because they weren’t bothering to listen to anyone’s story, but I hear you two are more open-minded.” he takes a small sip when bartender hands over the drink.

Recovered and still slightly red in the face, Sam says, “Just start at the beginning; when you first saw the light.”

“Sure. So, it all started with this bright purple light of course, but it was so fucking bright I’d thought I was going blind at first. It clears and suddenly I’m standing in this lavender field, it stretches on for miles. It was absolutely stunning, I tell ya.” Steven gesticulates with the same vigor and enthusiasm as his mom did as he tells his story.

“Suddenly, I see this woman. Absolutely gorgeous. I was hetero for a full 10 second, I swear to God. Thing is, I can’t describe what she looks like: not skin color, not hair color, not eye color. Nothing. But I remember she was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She was wearing a dress too. Same color as the lavender. Actually, I’m pretty sure her dress was made of actual lavender. The design would’ve put Vera Wang to shame.

“Anyway, she walked… more like floated… towards me and started to talk. But again, it was all very hazy, but her voice was melodic like the clearest flute. The only words I can remember sounded something like ‘ep nos.’ Next thing I know, I’m back in my room like I never left, except now I got a mild case of narcolepsy. My case has been the least severe which is why I haven’t made that big of a deal of it besides a doctor visit or two. It happens about once a week for about an hour or so. Hector drives me everywhere though, so I’m not in any danger of hurting myself or anyone too seriously." 

“Anything else you remember or anything else of importance?” Dean asks while Sam’s scribbling down notes in the tiny notepad he managed to fit in his pocket.

“Nothing that I can think of. My next routine is coming up soon, so I’ll catch you guys around. You know where to find me if you have any more questions. Good luck with everything.” Chugging the remainder of the beer, he places his cowboy hat back on and leaves Sam and Dean with a wink and another full view of his ass.

“Well, That was interesting.” Dean’s still staring after Steven as if trying to figure out something.

“At least we know where he gets it from. Also that little phrase he said, ‘ep nos’, it sounds like the Greek word sleep or ύπνος. It makes sense considering everyone affected are narcoleptics to some degree. So we're probably dealing with something Greek. Demi-god, witch, maybe or some sort of creature, not sure but we can do some research tonight” Sam takes a sip of the Cosmo, which tastes way better than any beer he’s ever had.  Not that he’d ever admit that to Dean; he gets made fun of for being a girl enough as it is.

“We could… or we could do something much better,” Dean slaps Sam on the ass which elicits a sharp yip from Sam. “Alright babe, I gotta take a shit; it might take a while. Keep the chair warm for me.”

Dean struts off like he owns the world, weaving through the crowd to get to the bathroom. Sam watches him go in slight disbelief but mostly resignation and just a hint of fondness. But just a hint. 

“Hey, the name’s Justin,” Sam turns back around to find a guy in Dean’s former spot staring at him. He’s handsome enough with black hair and a Superman curl framing his face. His eyes are dark brown, almost black. They look nice on his classically chiseled features. He’s tall, weirdly taller than Sam, not by much, but it suits him. He’s muscled, but not overly bulky in a plain green T-shirt and some worn down jeans.

Sam contemplates the idea of keeping the whole Fed charade up before nixxing it.

“Sam.” He holds out his hand as Justin shakes it with his oddly soft manicured ones.

“So, you come here often?” Justin is leaning against the bar eyes intent on Sam that’s not hard to place as lust. Sam throws his head back and laughs, incredulous.

“Are you legit, man?” With a guy as handsome as he is, Sam can’t really believe that’s his best line.

Justin rubs the back of his neck with his hand looking sheepish. “Kinda. How about I get you a drink? You fine with a beer or are you craving more Cosmos?”  he points to the half-finished drink on the coaster near Sam.

It’s Sam’s turn to look sheepish as his beverage choice is pointed out. “You can get me a beer if you want, but you do realize that I’m here with someone else and that’s not gonna change.” Sam sits back in his chair before taking a sip of his drink refusing to show his embarrassment. 

“Oh, I know. I’ve been watching you for a while. Your boyfriend’s cute by the way, if not a bit possessive but I’m new in town and was just looking to making a couple of friends. You know, my dream is to form the ultimate gay friend group filled with only the hottest men around where we just sit and talk about dick for hours.” He pitches up his voice at the end trying to achieve the most effeminate tone he can with his deep baritone.

“Kinda creepy that you’ve been watching me, but is it still offensive to do that if you’re gay?”

“Who knows?” He laughs and signals for the bartender.

“One beer for me and one Cosmo for my friend, Sam. You can put it all on my tab”

As the bartender makes the drinks, Sam talks a little more to Justin and learns he’s a recent graduate from MIT. He's just finished grad school where he got his masters in Electrical Engineering. Sam, feeling more tipsy with each sip, doesn’t bother with a cover story and talks about his attempt to become a lawyer and instead his journey into the family business. 

Justin passes Sam his freshly made cocktail and takes a drink of his own beer. “And what exactly is your family business?”

“Mechanics.” Sam takes another large sip of the cool drink to distract himself from the scrutinizing eye of Justin.

“All that fuss and coercion for a family of mechanics? Not even doctors or…  I don’t know, dentists, but mechanics? Damn, your family must be intense as hell.”

Sam means to nod and agree, but he gets dizzy when he lifts his head and all that comes out is a jumble of syllables. Sam doesn’t have the alcohol tolerance of his brother by no means, but he’s only had 2 drinks and it feels like he’s had at least 10. 

The room won't stop spinning, blurry with bright lights. A disembodied voice from above him speaks deep and rumbling sounding slightly impressed, but Sam’s not sure why.

“Damn, Harry, you were right. This shit kicks in faster than Rophonoyl. And does it really last as long?” There’s a slight buzzing noise coming across from the bar that sounds like words being pushed through a high-speed fan before the original voice continues. “Fuck yeah. That’s great because I plan to take my time with you, sweetheart.” he feels something soft stroke his cheek and he turns his head towards it trying to find some stability in the blur of his mind.

“De-Dean?” Sam pushes out through the feeling of cotton in his mouth. It takes most of his concentration and energy, but he does it.

“No, babe. It’s Justin, the one who’s about to fuck you so hard you won’t remember your name. Though I doubt you even remember it right now.” The voice laughs.

James laughs? Or is it Justice? Is that a name? Justin. That’s it.

Justin laughed. Why? Is there something on his face? He feels Justin speak. 

It sounds like two different voices. One is low and deep in his left ear, rumbling like the bass of the music in the club. The one on the right is high pitched and grating, static feedback buzzing between both ears. He goes to lift his hands to cover his ears from the noise, but his body just slumps forward right into the source of the laughter.

“For such a big boy, you’re pretty light. Good thing because at this point, I’m pretty sure I’ll need to carry you home. Hope you’ll be able to handle all I’m packing because I’m not slowing down once I’m inside you.” He feels a pressing sensation travel under the back of his shirt, leaving itching, tingling trails and it creeps down his back into the waistband of his jeans and past the flimsy pair of boxer brief. The feeling slides between his cheeks teasing his hole and he whines into the touch.

“Damn, you’re a little slut just asking for it aren’t you, still a little wet and open. When I saw you with your boyfriend, I wasn’t sure who would top between the two of you, but I should’ve known. Your boyfriend may have so lips made for sucking dick but you’ve got cockslut written all over your face.” The finger rubs patient circles around his opening. 

“I bet your boyfriend doesn’t fuck you hard enough, huh? I bet he doesn’t have what I have, what you need. You just need someone to put you in your place, baby boy? With a big fella like you, I bet you need it bad; you need someone to ruin your little hole every day. Maybe after I’m done I can find some friends to help you out? You up for it, Harry?” the buzzing behind the bar starts back up. It sounds suspiciously like laughter, but twisted and ugly, “We’d load you so full until you can’t fucking breathe. You look like you need that, sweetheart. A body like yours with a face like yours was meant for nothing but being fucked.” 

He feels a dry finger press inside and he can’t stop the groan from falling from his lips, weak like a child. His eyes are closed to block out the burning strobe of the light. There’s nothing but a high pitched ringing in his ears now only tempered by the voice that whispers the bad things. Wrong things. Wrong voice. 

The hand leaves his jeans and he feels himself being rearranged until he’s staring straight into dark brown eyes, almost black. He can smell the beer on its breath and can make out the angles of the face, but he can’t put the whole picture together.

“De-Demon,” he growls as he sees the black in its eyes. He tries to push it back with his mind, but it’s so jumbled, he can barely pull a cohesive thought together. He tries to do it traditionally instead, “E-excorcizamus t-t-t..” he breaks off when the laughter returns.

“Is that Latin? Man, this shit must be strong as hell, huh? I’m not a demon, they don't exist except in Sunday school stories, though a couple people have said I’m like one in bed. It was drugs, Sammy,” The voice, Justin, is talking to Sam like he is a child, slow and condescending. He can’t put together most of the words but he still wants to push back, spit in his face, stomp his feet and demand to be treated as an equal, but the room is spinning too fast and the voice won’t stop talking. “You were too busy watching your little boyfriend walk-away to even watch your first drink, and I had Harry spike the second one when he made it for you. Completely tasteless and fool-proof. You should’ve watched your drinks. At gay bars, it’s not the pretty girls who get their drinks spiked, it’s all the pretty boys.” he leans in, slotting his mouth against Sam’s and Sam gets lost in the darkness.

~~~~~~~~

Dean zips his pants up feeling slightly violated by the bidet in the men’s bathroom. It’s a gay club, he’s not exactly surprised, but a little warning would’ve been nice before the surprise enema. Seriously, who needs the water pressure that high? He washes his hands with the elegant rose-shaped soap and looks in the mirror feeling better than he has in a while. It took a little bit, but him and Sam are on the same page and it feels so good. Maybe he can convince Sam to give him a blowjob when they get back to the motel.

Forgoing the air dryer, he wipes his hands on his faux jeans and heads out the door. He instantly spots  Sam’s shaggy brown hair from across the room and notices him with another guy, taller. God, why the fuck is everyone in the world trying to spite him? He’s not even short! The average height of the American male is 5’10”, he’s three whole fucking inches taller. It’s not his fault that Sam’s freakish 6’4” height attracts all the other giants.

As he gets closer, he notices that Sam and Mystery dude aren’t just next to each other, they are all over each other. Sam’s head is thrown back in pleasure as Mystery Dude leaves trails of filthy kisses down Sam’s neck. One hand is supporting the back of Sam’s neck while the other is tucked inside Sam’s jeans. The outline of his hand is visible, groping, pawing and spreading Sam’s ass. Dean can tell from the way Sam’s mouth is open slightly and visibly panting that there’s a high possibility that a finger or two is in play.

Without a sound, it shatters. Every wall and barrier that Dean built to keep back the oceans of possessiveness, anger, the need to control, vanishes with just the snapshot of Sam and some other guy. He needs to hurt, maim, destroy. The guy, Sam, himself, everything, and everyone. Bright blue flames ignite at his core warring with the ice in his heart, burning and freezing, an unbalanced feud battling in his body. He stalks past the crowd that seems to part in his wake like he’s setting the ground beneath him on fire. They eventually resume their dancing, but there seems to be a divide on the dance floor where Dean streaked through.

When he finally reaches Sam, he yanks him back from the dude who looks surprised and upset at the sight of Dean. He must’ve gotten wrapped up in Sam and forgot the rest of the world existed. It happens to the best of them. 

Sam is a poison, a disease in the disguise of a blessing, worming his way under your skin and into your blood until death is the only possible way of separation. For the moment, Dean turns to Sam to look into the face of the man, the boy, who broke everything in him. The boy who he plans on breaking. When he looks into those eyes all he finds is…. nothing.

Sam’s face is blank and his head is lolling, eyes barely opened. He lets out a weak groan when Dean pulls him closer to get a better look. He slumps into Dean’s body, unable to hold himself up for more than a couple seconds and Dean has to re-right him once again. When he gets a proper look, he can see that the pupils of Sam’s eyes are blown unnaturally wide. Dean turns instantly back around to see Mystery Dude holding his arms up, already on the defense.

“Is this your boyfriend? I think he had too much to drink because I was just minding my own business and suddenly he’s all over me. I tried to get him off, but I didn’t want to hurt him. He seemed harmless enough, ya know?” He shrugs his shoulders, casually.

Dean feels an icy-calm settle over his body. It’s a feeling of indescribable peace and understanding as he looks into this guy’s eyes. He’s built like a brick house, but he looks slightly afraid as he watches the calm pass over in Dean’s eyes. He lets a smile break over his face, sincere and cocky with just the right amount of asshole in the mix.

“Nah, dude. It’s cool. He’s just some dude I was tryna fuck, but he was being a little prude even though it was obvious from the start he wanted it. Won’t go past a little finger action and we’ve been dating for a couple months. You'd think he’d finally give it up, the little bitch. I’m glad you had the courage to do what I’ve wanted to do for a long time.” 

The guy looks confused, rightly so. Dean just continues on.

“Look, man, you can drop the act. I know you drugged him. I don’t know with what though, cause Rohypnol takes at least 20 minutes to kick in and I was gone for less than 15, but it must be some high-grade shit. Hey, for making this easier for me, I’ll let you share him with me, just this once, but you gotta tell me the name of your dealer.” Mystery Dude finally lets a smile show, sharp canines peek through. He’s got dimples and he’s kind of cute. What a shame.

“Thanks, dude. I’ll definitely hook you up with it.” he looks over the bar and his eyebrows furrow for a second. “Harry must be in the bathroom, he has the stuff. It’s called Amour Fatigué and it definitely is some high-grade shit, expensive too but it’s worth it. We gotta hurry and get Sam out of here though. He’s close to dropping and it wouldn’t be too hard to carry him, but it would look a little suspicious. I’m Justin by the way.”

“Dean.”

They haul Sam out of there, one arm under each of their shoulders and Sam's feet stumble on the floor trying to catch his footing, his eyes drooping further and further. He feels lighter than Dean remembers. Not lighter by like a few pounds, but like at least a hundred, but that could be Justin helping.

“My car’s over here.” They place Sam in the Impala and he slumps over, laying over the entirety of the backseat. He’s whining high in his throat and Dean can hear the first letter of his name being repeated over and over.

“God, I can’t wait to get my dick in that.” Justin is practically salivating at this point, eyes roaming over the length of Sam spread in the backseat and Dean closes the door abruptly as Justin begins to speak.

“So, my place or yours? Also, if you are worried about side effects, Amour Fatigué has amnesiac qualities like Rohypnol but better, it’s almost an 100% guarantee he’ll forget everything from the second I slipped that first pill in his drink.”

“Wait, first pill? How many did you give him?” 

“One and ½ ish. I slipped half of one in first drink and ordered him another and Harry put a full pill in that one, but he didn’t drink all of the second drink. Why?” 

“It’s nothing; I was just curious. We have a motel rented about 10 minutes from here. We were visiting his grandma in some old folks home, but before that, I’m thinking I definitely need to get some more of this shit for later. You can get Harry to meet us in the back alley, right?”

“Yeah, no problem, but can’t we do that later?” Justin looks slightly impatient, glancing back to the car where Sam’s at.

“Me and Sam gotta head out after this. Plus, dude, you’re lucky this shit happened with me. Anyone else would kick your ass, but I’m letting you have a share. The least you could do is hook me up.” Dean’s trying not to let his irritation leak through. 

“You’re right. Lemme go back inside and get him. I’ll meet you in the alley in 5.”  he jogs slightly back to the bar as Dean walk back to the car. He turns the key in the trunk and pops it open.

Mechanically, he grabs the .22 and loads the magazine before pushing it back into the gun. He screws the silencer he keeps hidden away into the muzzle and cocks the gun once, before tucking it into his back pocket. To finish off, he grabs his pair of winter gloves and slides the kidskin over his hands and walk into the alley.

Justin is there with what Dean recognizes as the bartender. He’s in his late 30s with ginger hair and a matching beard. He's holding a plastic baggie filled with pink pills talking to Justin in hushed tones. When they see him entering the alley, Harry walks towards Dean, hand out as if to greet him. As if he’s even worth the scum on the bottom of Dean’s shoe. He doesn’t even notice the gun, “Hey, dude. Heard you wanted some of the-

He’s silenced by two bullets to the head and one to the heart. The baggie falls to the ground, almost silently, pills still enclosed in the clear plastic. Next is Justin. 

He begs and pleads and trying to call out for help but Dean shoots him once, straight in the groin. The tears are rolling harder now, silently down his pretty face. Dean tilts his head and watches, almost curiously as the blood pools. He finally lifts the gun once more and points it directly to his head and pulls the trigger. He watches as he falls, strings cut, looking fragile and utterly human in death. His eyes are empty and unseeing.

Dean grabs the collar on each man and drags them effortlessly across the pavement leaving a bloody trail in their wake. Dean lifts up Justin first and slings him over his shoulder, cautious of the blood still running sluggishly from the body. It should bother him that he’s having more trouble with arranging the sheer volume of the man rather than the weight, but he has no time and no mind to dwell. Lifting the dumpster lid, he unceremoniously tosses the body in. He repeats it once more with the bartender and closes the dumpster with finality, not even slightly out of breath.

He walks back to the car and sees Sam sound asleep, mouth hanging open. He takes the gloves off and checks Sam’s pulse, just for the reassurance. It’s steady and thrumming under his fingertips. He takes a deep breath and covers Sam with a blanket from the trunk. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turns the keys in the ignition and steps on the pedal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short, abstract chapter that's in Dean's mindset straight after the murders, so fair warning there.

Dean drives home in absolute silence. There’s no need to listen to music to break. It is unnecessary.

Unwanted.

Undeserved.

He just keeps driving and driving and driving and... 

The only sounds that accompany him are the purr of the engine, Sam’s steady breathing, and the occasional click of his ring hitting the steering wheel in agitation. The tapping of restless fingers. Fingers that pulled a trigger. Once, twice, another bullet, another target, another person, another human. 

Human.

The press of the gas pedal, driving, right, driving, driving, red light, the press of the break, stop.

Greenlight, the press of the gas pedal, driving, driving, right, driving, left, right, driving, driving, stop sign, the press of the break, stop.

Driving, driving….

**Stop.**

He’s arrived.

He pulls up to the hotel, the green and blue sign blinks indicating “No Vacancies” but the empty parking lot suggests otherwise. There’s blood under his fingertips from the blowback and he can practically taste pennies, strong and pungent coating every taste bump on his tongue and the rough palate of his mouth.

Dean takes his time parking, pulling past a random empty spot surrounded by more empty spots. He brakes softly, foot easing slowly on the pedal. Completely stopped, he feels the solidness of the gear shaft under his fingertips, constant.

He lets his fingers graze over it, just for a minute, memorizing the slight curve of the handle before pressing down, pulling back and shifting into reverse.

He watches his hands as he cuts the steering wheel all the way to the left.

Hand over hand over hand over STOP.

The wheel can no longer turn, stuck to the utmost left and Dean releases the brakes and the wheel; slowly backing, slowing turning.

He’s parked crooked. He never parks crooked. He shifts into drive and he tries again.

A little to the left, a little too much to the right, unbalanced, unchecked.

Crooked.

Resigning himself, he turns off the idling car and instead, lets himself idle. He’s staring at the expanse of concrete and weedy, dying grass. Gum wrappers, a band-aid, a receipt, an empty McDonald's bag, and a condom.

A condom.

Is it used? What for?

A blow job? A hand job? Vaginal? Anal? Balloon animals?

Dean laughs, ugly, loud in the dead air of the lot.

Balloon animal condoms.

What could it be?

A stubby worm? A tic tac? A pill?

_ A pill. _

**A roofie.**

He stops laughing.

He steps out the car to the soft chirping of crickets.

He opens the back door and sees Sam.

His brother.

His little brother.

SIX months old with stubby fingers and toes, clinging to Dean with fragile strength.

SIX years old, teeth missing, but smile brighter than a flare.

SIXteen years old, stubborn, messy, ugly, beautiful, angry, overwhelming.

Six. Six. Six.

Sam. Sam. Sam. 

Sam.

Everything.

He grabs his brother from the car, fireman carries him over the shoulder.

The left shoulder, not the right one. The left shoulder, the left shoulder, the one untarnished by blood and death and lust and rape and blood and blood and blood and blood and blood and blood and blood and….

Sam’s light like summer air and heavy like the toll of war. 

The left shoulder.

Sam’s pool noodle thin. Pool noodle long. Pool noodle light. 

He opens the door with a rusted gold key, hand steady and certain but mind shaking and stirring, and puts Sam down.

Bed. Covers. Sleep.

Sam sleeps.

The TV clicks on, static, then pictures. People, places, and things.

Ideas and memories.

Life.

A small murmur breaks through.

“Deeeeeeeann… Wha-” It’s weak, groggy, and drawn out. Sam’s trying to prop himself up on the bed. Stomach down, like a baby learning to lift its head. “Dean, Deeeeean-”

“Sleep, Sam.” Gentle and urging.

Like a switch being flipped. Sam’s head drops, eyes shut and breathing regular and strong.

Like a light switch.

Light on.

Light off.

Sam on.

Sam off.

Sam off. Sam’s off. Sam’s off. Sam’s off. Sam-

Dean rushes up, knocking over a lamp that shatters on impact. The room is now lit only by the fluorescence of the TV.

He drops to his knees on the bathroom tile, heaving into the toilet. Bile spills from his mouth. Evil claws it’s way up his throat, looking to escape, looking to be free. Looking.

Searching.

Heaving, wet and putrid.

Heaving, dry and vile.

Heaving.

Breathing.

Breathing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and kudos are love :D


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took a couple days longer than usual and it's kind of short. I've been super busy and I planned all 32 chapters out in advance, so sometimes there's a lot to write and sometime's there's not. To be honest, I haven't really written in weeks since I had a lot of chapters done in advance, ready for me to edit and post, but I'm getting closer and actually have to start writing new material and I forgot how exhausting it is, but I'm already so deep in, that I 100% will finish this fic. Anyway, thanks for sticking around and reading. Hope y'all enjoy!

Dean washes his face staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The bags under his eyes are prominent and his eyes themselves are more bloodshot than the time he hotboxed 3 blunts in the Impala. God, he wishes he was high right now. Anything to escape this gnawing feeling slowly eating away at his insides. He splashes some more water onto his face and swishes a handful in his mouth to get rid of the foul taste lingering on his tongue as he looks at his reflection once more.

He killed a man.

He killed two men. 

Not shapeshifters or black dogs or demons or any other monster, but humans. Albeit, one was a man who was planning on hurting his brother, on _raping_ his brother… There's a sharp, high noise as the sink cracks, the line of the break propagating further and further until Dean realizes it’s his doing. He yanks his hands away from the ceramic where his fingers were gripping tight. He stares at his hands.

He just broke the sink with his bare hands - with what felt like barely any force. Like crushing styrofoam between his fingers.

The same fingers that pulled a trigger and killed men

Humans.

Before this, Dean’s only ever killed a man once. He was 18 and a demon had possessed someone. The poor son-of-a-bitch was in his mid-thirties, a known wife-beater who went missing 2 months prior, much to the relief of the battered wife.

He came back a different man, a kinder man. He now attended church on Sundays. He hung with his buddies on Wednesdays for their weekly poker games and only drank a respectable 3 beers on those nights. Hell, he even started volunteering at the soup kitchen and was a better husband, father, neighbor, friend, and son.

Except at night. That's when he left behind the picket fence, wife, and 2.5 children and turned into a snarling beast. Black eyes, savage, ripping apart men and women. For fun. 

Not for food, not out of necessity, but for fun.

Dean had never had encountered a demon before and he was 18, cocky, and thought he knew the lay of the land. In the middle of the woods and a torrential downpour, he shot once, twice, silver bullets piercing head and heart, but the man had just laughed, black eyes and all.

Dense smoke poured from his throat, swirling above like a thundercloud. The man had fallen to the ground, broken but somehow still alive. Maybe it was the last on the demon essence keeping him alive, but he managed to utter a weak plea, reaching out his hand with a single tear in the corner of his eye before he fell, face now blank and barren as blood sluggishly poured from the bullet wounds Dean inflicted.

Dean knew that the man, now dead on the ground, wasn’t a good man, with or without the demon inside. And that as many times as he beat on his wife bloody, he deserved nothing more than a bloody end himself. That still didn’t heal the hole in his gut.

He was a monster hunter. He hunted monsters, killed them with a dagger, a spell or a gun. With special bullets or a basic round through the head, decapitation or a stake through the heart. He was supposed to take out any threat to the human race. Sure, there were complications. People got hurt, people even died. He's watched good men and women get torn apart in front of his eyes, but he was never the one behind the trigger. He was never the one directly responsible for watching the life flow out of their eyes. 

As complicated as life was, Dean was happy to have something as black and white as hunting, because no matter the tragedy that came along with it, hunting was simple. 

Find the monster. Kill the monster. Save the civvie. Three simple steps, easy and clear, now muddled by the blood on his hands.

He wasn’t supposed to kill people, humans. Bad or good, it wasn’t his responsibility to decide their fate in the world. It wasn’t supposed to be up to him.

After minutes that felt like hours, Dean had finally left the woods, soaked to the bone in the heavy rain that had fallen. After that, he stopped hunting for a while, refused to accompany John on anything more complicated than a salt ‘n burn. It took a while to get back into the game, to reestablish his foundation, but when he did, he was a better hunter than he had ever been.

He slashed and cut down monsters, swiftly and with more conviction, like a born-again Christian rediscovering his faith. Dean didn’t really think back to that accident too often; demons were far and few between. But killing those men- killing Justin and the bartender had brought it all flooding back.

This time, he can’t hide behind the pretense that it was a demon, or some creature inhabiting a body, but that it was a full-blooded 100% certified and flawed humans he killed in cold blood. And the worst thing is, he doesn’t feel an ounce of resentment for either one of those sons of bitches. Not for Justin, who drugged his baby brother and was planning on taking full advantage. Not even for the bartender, who simply supplied the drugs.

He’s scared, absolutely terrified that he doesn’t regret his actions. He wishes he did, but if he had another chance... if he could go back in time and redo the situation... he wouldn’t change a god damn thing. Maybe he’d draw it out more, watch the fear in their eyes for a little longer, the tremble of lips begging for their lives, tears streaming down a blood soaked face, a body riddled with bullet wounds that would hurt like fresh agony but wouldn't kill-

The ceramic of the sink crumbles under his fingers and some floats to the floor, finer than sand. He drops the remaining shattered bits onto the floor.

Fuck. What’s happening to him? It must be this town, it must be something to do with the purple light and the woman. Or something, for God's sake!  He can admit, he’s always loved the adrenaline, the satisfaction that comes from a hunt and saving people, but this bloodlust, the heavy desire to bring pain and suffering, that’s new.

He just forced Sam to sleep, something he never does. He supposed to control those urges, supposed to let Sam live as free as possible. But he doesn’t want to. He _wants_ to want to, but he can’t.

Fuck, this is too much right now. He grabs a towel from the shower railing and rubs the dust from the crumbled sink off his hands and wipes his face dry.

Turning off the bathroom light, he heads back to the twin next to Sam who’s still sound of asleep - because of him - and turns off the TV with the outdated remote. Lying above the covers, sitting up and arms crossed, he falls asleep against the headboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all comments and kudos <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I posted on time. Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, y'all really keep me going. Hopefully, this chapter is up to par. Enjoy ;D

Fuck his head hurts. There’s a drumming in his temples contrasting with the sharp staccato resonating towards the center.

Sam tries sitting up but his vision goes dark and he closes his eyes again. Bright, orange, lopsided circles spin around like synchronized swimmers. He collapses back into something relatively soft and bed-like. Groaning, he tries again. Slowly this time, rising each inch with a careful consideration while the pain in his head increases and decreases with a sinusoidal persistence.

It takes a minute, but his vision eventually clears. The hazy spots slowly disappear revealing their motel room. Strange. He doesn’t actually remember coming back here.

He rubs his eyes, wincing at the amount of sleep crumbling in the corners and wipes it out, still not fully registering the situation. The bed next to him is crumpled and empty.

Dean.

Where’s Dean?

Sam tries to get out of the bed and wobbles a few steps before falling over, a loud thunk resounding through the room.

“Dean?” His voice barely registers as a whisper and he tries again.

“Dean?” It’s stronger this time, but he feels himself getting weaker as though that word sapped all remaining reserves of energy.

Huh. This carpet is kind of comfortable, crusted hard in some areas though. He rolls over until he finds a soft spot large enough to accommodate the length of his body and curls up until the darkness takes him under.

~~~~~~~

He wakes up again to a hand on his shoulder and a soft urging voice. Well, he partly wakes up. His eyes are still closed like caskets and his body is mostly unresponsive to the passing thoughts of movement. He’s drifting between the soft cocoon of darkness and the harsh reality of wakefulness. He chooses to rest in the limbo space between just to hear the soft and low cadence of the voice calling his name.

“-am. Sam. Sammy, you gotta wake up dude.” He hears a huffing breath before he feels himself being carried bridal style like he’s five again and he instinctively wraps his arms around the figure.

“Of course you’re awake, just too lazy to get up yourself, huh?” The voice rumbles, familiar and strong. He just holds on tighter and feels himself whining at the attempt of withdrawal from the warm body against his. He feels the contact finally broken from his sleep weak hands and finds the whines grow stronger, almost unconsciously, in the back of his throat. Over the pitch of his whimpers, he hears a sigh and the mumblings of something vaguely fond sounding like, “clingy drunk.”

He feels the steady wrap around as the figure closes back in, encompassing heat blanketing his side and his high-pitched musings cut off immediately with the contact.  His head is lifted onto something strong and firm and he can hear the _thumpthumpthump_ of a steady beat beneath his ears. He nuzzles in closer wanting to bury himself deeper into the sound until there’s nothing but truth in the volume.  

“Ok, Sammy. Just this once, we can cuddle like a couple of chicks. One more hour and then I’m pouring ice cold water all over your Disney Princess Hair and I guarantee you, you aren’t gonna look half as good as Ariel when you wake up.”  He feels a hand, calloused and rough, gently push hair off his forehead and tuck it behind his ear. He falls back asleep to the slight rise and fall below him.

~~~~~~~~

“Rise and Shine, Sammy!” The noise is sudden and overly loud as Sam bolts up in the bed and instantly regrets it as a shot of nausea hits him harder than a semi.

“Ugggh… what did I have to drink last night? Never let me do that again.” Sam rubs his head and looks over to Dean who’s tying his boots on the other bed and looks very serious all of a sudden, forehead wrinkled with concern as he watches the laces on his boots.

“What exactly do you remember last night?”

Sam concentrates, trying to pull up memories from his alcohol-soaked mind.

“Ummmm, we interviewed Stevie… err, Steven. We figured out it might be some sort of Greek deity that likes lavender and sleep. Ummm... You left to go to the bathroom and I met this guy named Justin and then it all goes- Dean, are you okay?” Sam’s trails off when he notices that Dean’s teeth are grinding, almost audibly, and his fist keeps clenching and unclenching tightly as if to crush some invisible force between his fingers. The stubs of his fingernails even manage to draw a bit of blood from his palm.

“Uhhh, Dean you’re bleeding.”

“Shit!” Dean heads to the bathroom and Sam hears the sink running momentarily before Dean comes back with a wet rag over the palm of his hand. Sam would’ve gotten up to help, but he doesn’t trust himself to stand without puking his guts out.

“So you’re gonna tell me what’s making you so upset? I mean you always knew I was kind of a lightweight, so it's obviously not that.”

Dean takes a deep breath before starting, “You weren’t drunk last night, Sam.”

“Umm, yeah I was. How else can you explain the hangover, the amnesia, the-” he breaks off mid-sentence as he sees the mix of pity and fury in Deans eye. The anger isn’t directed towards him, but it burns so bright that Sam can feel his skin blister. It hits him before he can utter his next word

“Was I- Did I- Did someone…Justin... fuck...” he can’t finish the sentence. The sudden feeling hits him as he doubles over in pain of an oncoming panic attack. God, before this stupid curse happened, he never used to be so sensitive, but now it’s like he freaks out over everything and he can’t control it. It’s like someone made sure that the obedience curse had a tag-along “damsel-in-distress” mode.

Fire ants run across the planes of his skin sinking in deep and invasive. His body feels uncomfortable, foreign; he doesn’t want to be in it anymore. He doesn’t want to focus on the fact that he might be sore and hurting in private places, doesn’t want to even contemplate the thought. He feels the bile coming to surface and pushes it down as tears, unbidden, spring to his eyes and his breath become shorter than the rope of a hanged man.

“Sam, deep breaths.” It’s a command. One Sam is happy to follow.

“Nothing happened. I got you out and tucked you in real nice to let you sleep it off. Even picked your fat-ass up and carried you back to bed after you decided the semen crusted carpet was a better place to sleep,” He pauses and watches Sam with a laser intensity that needles into the very inner cells of his being, “You know, I would never let anything like that happen to you, ever. I would die before I let it. Kill.” There’s steel in his eye, hard and unyielding.

“Justin?”

“I took care of him.”

“What does that mean? You didn’t kill him or anything like that?”

Dean laughs, it’s brittle and fake. He looks at Sam. “I don’t kill humans, Sam. Never have and never will, no matter what they’ve done, it’s not what I do. I only kill monsters. But I made him wish he were dead.”

“Dean…”

“Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

“You know you can’t ask that of me.” Dean watching him with that look and it scares him as much as it comforts him. Dean opens his mouth, hesitates and then finally settles.

“I know. But you also know me. I took care of the situation, even the bartender who was supplying the drugs. We came here to get rid of one monster and now we just added two more to our list. It seems like everyone wins.”

“Dean. I need to know what you mean when you say you ‘took care of the situation.’ Putting me on a need-to-know basis like Dad used to do is fucking ridiculous. I’m not a child or some kid brother you need to coddle and lie to. I don’t know, man. It just seems like there’s something going on with you, more than usual and you keep it bottled up and it’s not working. For either of us. And I want to help you. I want to make this work as much I can in this fucked up situation, but I can’t do that if you keep lying to me.” Sam knows his eyes are doing that pleading “puppy-dog” look as Dean like to call it, but if it’s his only advantage to finally get some truth in this situation, he’s going to capitalize on it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you've got some nerve to talk about keeping secrets.” It's obvious that Dean's deflecting and Sam's charting into dangerous territory that could get himself exposed, but he persists. 

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“Fuck.” Sam huffs and before he can chicken out, the words tumble out carelessly. “Before we left for Delaware... when we fucked...” Sam can see Dean shift on the bed, uncomfortable and apprehensive. His eyes flit over Sam, deer-in-headlights wide and challenge ringing in the bright light of sunrise. Sam meets his gaze, unflinchingly and continues. “...something happened between us, then. I mean, the way you looked at me, the way you took control and _liked_ it; it was obvious that I was just some object for you to own, to possess. I mean, the way you demeaned me and treated me-”

“Sam,” Dean says the word like a plea, eyes wet and trembling. Sam pushes back any sympathy with a cruel hand and continues.

“No, Dean. You have to fucking own up to what you’re doing, what you’re turning into, because I swear to God, Dean. If you killed those men, you need to tell me. You have to let me know what the fuck you’re going through, so we can figure it out. It’s been getting worse, for a long time now, and I don’t know where it’s going to lead.” Sam stands up, nausea an afterthought, chest heaving and heartbeat as erratic as a dying fly buzzing in a window sill.

“I know. I know. I love you, Sam. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t-”

Before Dean can get out another word, the room starts to shake and just like that, the moment is over and the walls build back up as if they hadn’t been slowly crumbling moments ago. Dean’s on his feet wiping the moisture from his eyes and reaching for the gun tucked into his bag on the bed beside him

“What're the chances that they have earthquakes in Delaware?” Deans yells over the clatter of furniture.

“I’m guessing slim to none considering tectonic plate movement in the northeast barely exists,” Sam replies. Dean looks incredulous at Sam’s overcomplicated jargon in such a weird moment. But to be fair, it’s kind of hard to function normally when he’s just been hogtied and dragged through 64 different emotional states in the span of half an hour.

Dean’s closing in from behind him and Sam can see the beginning growth of a purple light starting by the door of the room. It’s pushing and outstretches, a perfect sphere too bright and intense to be even close to man-made. Dean shoots at it a couple time, the gunshots seem to echo through the impossibly small room and do absolutely nothing to stop the growing force. Sam would laugh at how stupid Dean looks shooting at it, except he’s too busy panicking and trying to figure out a way to get out of this situation, but that’s the problem. There’s no way out. No windows and no other exits and the brick walls make even tearing the walls down in time an impossibility. No matter what happens, they’re trapped and the light is going to reach them. Sam feels himself being led to the bed farther from the light and feels Dean closing in.

“Close your eyes, Sammy.” He huddles in on the bed next to Sam and holds tight, too tight and not tight enough, all at the same time. Sam closes his eyes unable to stand the concentration of power emanating from the light. The whole situation is ridiculous and tragic wrapped up neatly with a bow gracing the top. Two grown men on a dirty queen-sized mattress tangled together waiting for their fate to be decided by a glowing purple orb.

Dean’s comforting him, shielding him as though he’s defenseless. The level of possessiveness, of physical protectiveness over the bright light when they've been in far worse situations, is weirdly out of character, yet so _Dean_ that it hurts. Lately, it’s been as though someone has taken everything that makes Dean, _Dean_ and turned the dial past MAX VOLUME. It’s so intense and overwhelming and putting everything he’s built over the past two years on the line because of it. He was so close, so, so, so close to finding out the truth, and now that opportunity vanished, seared away in the panic of light.

For once, Sam lets go and lets himself take comfort in the strong arms wrapped around him as the room grows brighter behind closed lids. Clenching his eyes tighter, they let the light wash over them until there's nothing but them and the violent glow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are appreciated!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm over 100 kudos! I think I actually accomplished this last chapter, but I was so caught up trying to catch up writing that I forgot to say thanks to everyone who's given kudos and extra thanks to those who have commented (especially those who comment as they read!). I know I say this a lot, but every time I get a notification that I got a comment, as simple as they may be, it really truly brightens my day. Hope y'all enjoy the new chapter.

The first thing that Dean’s aware of is the smell. Overwhelming and floral, it surrounds and weaves around him. It’s so powerful that he’s almost high off of it, like paint fumes or permanent markers. He clenches his eyes tighter, partially in denial and partially in exhaustion. There’s a soft breeze and he feels something feather-soft brush across the tip of his nose. His eyes burst open to purple. Violent violet and light lavender swirl above him in a beautiful mockery of a sky. He sits up and realizes he’s in a field.

Of course. There are lavender flowers everywhere, great green stalks topped with light purple buds. He looks to his left and right, in front of and behind him and it’s obvious that the fields are endless, stretching past the imagination, but to his immediate right is Sam, face smoothed out in sleep.

He reaches over, a hand right above Sam's face and feels the light warm puffs of air coming from Sam’s mouth. Dean's body releases tension he didn’t even know he had and goes to wake Sam. He shakes him once. Twice. Softly. Harder.

“Sam. Sammy, wake up. Sammy!” He leans over and cups Sam’s face between his hands, smoothing his fingers over the apples of his cheeks, worry coursing through every vein. “Don’t make me kiss you awake. I know you always liked those Disney movies, but this ain’t _Sleeping Beauty,_ kid.” He gives the chestnut hair another run through, feeling the satin strands between his fingers.

“He won’t wake up, at least not right now." Dean whips around to find the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life. Her skin is as smooth and unblemished as silk and the exact color of the prissy lattes Sam usually orders. Her hair hangs in ebony ringlets and her lips are a pale dusky pink. It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s staring silently, eyes wide and mouth agape and he has to physically shake his head just to clear his thoughts.

“And who the fuck are you?” Luckily, he keeps the tremble and awe out of his voice leaving only the hard edge of anger and worry as he glances back down at his little brother to distract himself from her face. He’s surprised to hear melodious laughter in response. He looks back up to see her head thrown back in obvious humor momentarily. She returns her gaze to his with a twinkle in her eyes that outshines any star.

“Well, they certainly didn’t undersell you, Dean Winchester.” she extends one graceful hand, nails painted the same color as her pale purple dress. “I would tell you my true name, but hearing it would put you into an endless slumber and I’m not sure you would want that, though you could certainly use it. You can call me….” she paused scrutinizing him for a second before looking at her own form and laughing slightly to herself. “... Cassie.”

Dean feels something within himself relax. He can’t place it, but as he hears the name coupled with the woman in front of him, he feels the certainty of safety as though Cassie won’t harm him and more importantly, Sam. Something about the name and the face also brings an almost crippling sense of deja vu, but he dismisses it immediately to focus on his current predicament. He takes her incredibly soft hand into his and stands up still hyper-aware of Sam’s presence behind him.

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question, Cassie.”

“You asked who I was, but you want to know _what_ I am, I presume?”  

“Well, yeah.” he sputters unable to really find another way to put it eloquently. Her laugh tinkles through the air again and she starts to speak.

“Well, long story short, I am the daughter of Hypnos and Aphrodite.”

“Who?”

“Aphrodite is the goddess of-”

“I know who Aphrodite is,” Dean’s slightly flustered and upset at the fact that Cassie doesn’t even think he knows who the most basic of Greek Gods are.

“Well, you never know nowadays. Humans change allegiances to Gods all the time, though it’s nice to hear that mother is still well-known among humanity.” She pats him on the cheek affectionately, albeit slightly condescending, and he feels himself heat up, which Cassie notices immediately. “The red hue of your cheeks when you are embarrassed is absolutely endearing. My mother would be smitten with you. I’m pretty sure if she ever met you, I’d have another half-sibling running rampant and causing chaos. You know how demi-gods are,” she sighs fondly and Dean’s cheeks flush even darker. He’s never been this flustered in front of a woman before; he has no clue what is going on. She pats his other cheek affectionately once more.

“So, I guess you are wondering about my father, Hypnos. He’s known as the god of sleep. Mother got together with him during one of her rebellious fazes. Grandfather was absolutely raging, lightning rained down and killed over 100 herds of cows and one poor farmer in Athens when he heard of their affair, but then I came along and he was overjoyed. As much as he loves me, he never really came around to liking father though.”

“Huh.” Dean’s still having trouble processing the fact that so many powerful Greek gods actually exist.

“Did I stump you, little one?” she says, a slight glint of humor in her eyes.

“Who are you calling little? And I’m just taking time to process. You just told me Zeus is your grandpa so sometimes it’s a little hard for me, a mere mortal with only a couple shotguns and a car to my name, to wrap my head around it.” he barely realizes he’s voicing all his thoughts aloud. He watches her lean down to pluck a piece of lavender from the grass and weave it into her dress in a complicated pattern.

“I thought that you, a hunter of the supernatural, would be acclimated to the existence of the ethereal.” She pats down her dress, smoothing out the flower so seamlessly that Dean can’t tell where it was even placed.

“Me too.” he scrubs a hand through his hair. Some of the gel sticks to his fingers and he absently wipes it off on his jeans.

“Are you ready now, Dean Winchester.” Cassie starts to extend her hand gracefully towards his forehead, but he stumbles back and watches her arm brush through the empty air where he once was.

“Wait, stop! What are you going to do to me?” He feels his pulse jump and he’s suddenly back on high alert despite the calm aura that surrounds her. He glances surreptitiously at Sam laying peacefully and safely away from Cassie. He’s trying to see if he can grab Sam and make a run for it, but even with his increased strength, there’s literally nowhere to go and Cassie could easily catch him before he could take one step with the power she has. He glances back at the goddess in question. Her head is tilted curiously and arm still slightly outstretched as she considers Dean.

“I’m simply doing to you what I did with all the rest.”

“Giving me fits of narcolepsy that’ll cause me to get myself killed?!” Hysterics come back into play as Dean remembers exactly who he’s dealing with, but he manages to hide the fact that he's completely scared shitless, mostly.

“What? No!” she looks aghast that Dean would ever suggest a thing, surprise evident on her perfect features. “I’m allowing you to have peace.”

At Dean’s confusion and defensive stance, she lowers her hand and takes a step back.

“I’ve never really been what either of my parents wanted me to be. My dad has always been the bad boy type. He has a niche for finding trouble and chaos wherever he goes; I’ve never really been interested in that. I enjoy the subtle beauty and powerful love that my mother’s side has to offer. You would never know this, but this particular vessel is the love of your life.” Dean involuntarily glances back at his brother before he can stop himself.

“Well,” Cassie continues, “She would’ve been the love of your life, in another life. In a world, where you and your brother weren’t so wrapped up in each other in every single notion; you would’ve fallen in love with a woman named Cassandra Robinson. Funny that she reflects so many things you love about Samuel. Headstrong. Stubborn. Independent. Beautiful.

“Although I embrace my mother’s side for the softer things, my real focus has always been on sleep. But of course, not in the way my father does. He likes the chaos, I like the peace. I’ve always felt rather sympathetic to the plight of humanity and I’ve wanted nothing more than to bring them peace in any way I could. So to the disdain of both my father and my mother, I delved into the art of sleep. What you call narcolepsy, I call refreshment.

“I’m smart enough to know that there are important stipulations to ensure that no one is hurt. Sleep should never befall those who are in battle, those who are navigating the seas to find uncharted land or upon horseback. I’ve taken caution to ensure that wakefulness exists near fires and other extreme elemental conditions and numerous situations where sleep would dangerous to the fragility of humans.

“Humans so often push themselves to their limits and break. My spell allows their bodies to rest whenever needed, whether they want it or not, they need it. So you see, Dean Winchester, nothing I do is in ill will. I only want to help. Please allow me to give you the rest you desperately need; it might abide some of this turmoil inside of you.”

When she finishes, Dean looks at her as if he’s assessing a threat. From the tension in her stance to the sincerity on her face all he can see is… truth. Truth and a little bit of innocence. Her big dark chocolate eyes plead very similarly to the hazel he’s so used to seeing. It isn’t hard to imagine falling in love with Cassie in another life, but this isn’t another life. And this isn’t Cassie Robinson. This is a Greek goddess who was probably around to see the rise and fall of generations and generations. I mean she's talking about people discovering new lands and riding horseback as though... 

Oh…

The realization hits him square in the gut and squeezes a breath of laughter out him. One laugh turns into another and another and another until he’s practically crying. The puppy-dog eyes Cassie has quickly become questioning and slightly suspicious and he has to take a second to catch his breath before he starts talking.

“Cassie, when’s the last time you were on Earth? I mean, I’m assuming that most of the time, you pick people who you feel need the rest and are hopefully deserving of it. Then, you cast your mojo on 'em when you pull them into this world.” He gestures to the endless field surrounding them, “But when’s the last time you actually visited humanity, in the flesh?”

She pauses slightly before speaking. “Maybe a millennium or two. It could be three. I’m not sure. There isn’t much I haven’t seen. Humans tend to be very repetitive. It becomes predictable and I’ve been busy here and in Olympus perfecting my spell work, but I plan on visiting Earth again soon. Why?”

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s changed so much in the past century; you wouldn’t believe it. Technology. Cars. Everything.”

“Cars? Don't you mean carts? English is a very temperamental language and I'm still adjusting because I've mostly been speaking Greek for the past couple of millennia, but I'm pretty sure you mean _carts_.”

“No, I mean cars. Cassie, I respect what you’re doing. I really do. But before you keep throwing people into mini comas, I need to you to go down to Earth and really look around. With everything that’s going on in the 21st century, just throwing people into random siestas can literally get people killed, despite all the stipulations you made to ensure they don’t. Maybe after taking a trip around the globe and taking some notes or whatever, you can revise your plan to accommodate for the changes in our world, but the concept is great.”

“You truly believe so?” she looks up at Dean looking quite young in her eagerness and Dean lets an indulgent smile peek through before nodding.

“Yeah, I truly do.”

She composes herself quickly after the note of approval. Her stance regains its regality as if reminded of her godliness and her face draws into a somber visage. Dean goes on high alert at the sudden change.

“I thank you, Dean Winchester. My intentions were never to harm and you’ve helped me in that way; I feel indebted to you and must warn you.”

“About what?”

“I think you know, Dean. These powers you have over your brother. They aren’t... good.”

“Yeah, no shit, but they're necessary. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I think I understand more than you know. You feel that they are necessary because your father burdened you with the task of guarding your brother’s soul. So, now you use them to curb your brother’s abilities. While I won’t comment on my beliefs on that particular issue, I need you to understand what using these powers mean.” Dean’s not sure how to feel knowing that she knows everything, but he doesn’t interrupt because his nerves are slowing shattering with every word she speaks. “I truly mean it. The abilities you have are rooted in a dark evil, even if I wanted to, I don’t have the capability to wash them away. With every command you utter, no matter the severity, these powers will warp you into something corrupt. I know you’ve been feeling it. The urge to use them more and more. I know you also now have a new physical strength as a result of it.

Samuel is meant for greatness. Great evil or great good, only time will tell. But your intervention, your control, will spiral you into a hole so dark that you'll never know where the light is and you will drag Sam down with you.

I’m telling you this because there is a chance for you to stop. A chance to resist and I believe you are strong enough to change the path that you are on. At the root of everything Dean, you are good.”

“Barely,” as he whispers the word, he feels soft hands grip his chin and tilt his head back up and he stares evenly into the warm eyes.

“Truly. You are truly, fully, and utterly good.” she smiles softly and Dean can’t help but smile back, a self-derisive quirk of his lips. “Now, that’s plenty of human emotions for right now. Although, I suppose that I will have to get used to it since I must learn more about the new customs you’ve been speaking of.” She snaps her fingers quickly. The noise echoes slightly through the field. “And now all the humans of the first trial are put back to normal, so no need to worry about this mortal danger you speak of. Let’s head back shall we?” Her voice is suddenly chipper and decisive, a great departure from the solemnity of before.

“Before we go, I have one question.” Dean glances over to Cassie who has leaned down to brush a lock of hair from Sam’s eyes. Dean bites back the automatic wave of possessiveness that crashes over him.

She withdraws her hand as though sensing his mood and stands up regarding him with watchful eyes “What would that be?”

“So you captured this guy named Steven. Steven Ross. He’s gay, like full on homosexual. Who did you appear as for him? Did you turn into a guy? Is he straight or at least attracted to women in another universe or..."

“Ah,” she smiles slightly to herself probably not expecting the seemingly off-topic question, “Steven Michael Ross, a unique and wonderful human, just so happens to be of the male-oriented sexual and romantic preference in _every_ alternate version of himself. I, unfortunately for him, prefer to only inhabit female-oriented vessels. So for him, I appeared as a young Cherilyn Sarkisian.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I believe she’s more commonly known as a pop singer by the name of Cher on Earth.”

“Cher?” Dean asks with raised eyebrows and wide eyes.

“Indeed. Did you know that young Steven has had a total of 47 posters of Cherilyn Sarkisian starting from the age of fourteen?”

“No. Didn’t really think I needed to.”

“Oh, yes. Besides you and Samuel, I think that he is my favorite human I’ve encountered so far.”

Dean simply blinks and doesn’t know if that really can be considered a compliment or not. Cassie lays her hand back onto Sam’s hair and stretches out her other hand towards Dean.

“Are you ready to go back?” she asks.

“Nope.” she smiles indulgently as he pops the ‘p’ and reaches out to grab her outstretched hand. “Let’s get this show on the road anyway.”

Closing her eyes, the purple light began to spread from her core and expands outwards. The last thing Dean feels is an encompassing warmth and it all goes from a bright blazing violet to an empty nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed so feel free to point out any mistakes. Comments and kudos are love <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, so this is kind of late. Kind of realized that this once a week thing was slightly ambitious on my part, so I will continue to update as regularly as I can, but this chapter is kinda long, so hopefully it makes up for the wait.

 

Sam can actually feel himself come into awareness. It’s a niggling afterthought at first; he much prefers the warmth of the darkness surrounding him, but he feels the push like a whisper, then a caress, a word, a voice, a scream.

He jolts straight up, ignoring the lightheadedness from the sudden change in position and barely takes in his surroundings as he calls for the first thing that crosses his bleary mind.

“Dean,” it comes out raspy, mostly broken so he tries again.

“Well, aren’t you two just adorably codependent.” Sam swings his head around to see a beautiful woman in a stunning pale purple dress, legs crossed elegantly, sitting at a kitchen table. Finally aware of the soft cotton below him, Sam realizes he’s sitting in his bed in their motel room they rented out in….

In Kentucky?

No, that was a couple of weeks ago. They had been fighting a… a… a yokai. A kappa, specifically. Everything is starting to clear up slightly. 

What about the Cyclops in Texas? 

No, that was the previous week. Dean had stabbed it in the eye. And then that whole bit of drama went down and now they were in… 

Denv- no. Delaware. Ok. That sounds right. 

They’re in Delaware. 

Millsboro to be exact. 

Purple light.

Abductions. 

Ok, it’s all coming back. Sam looks around the room, momentarily glazing over the woman to see Dean in the bed next to him, snoring softly and peacefully. He’s on his stomach, tucked under the covers neatly with one hand bunched under the pillow and the other hanging off the edge of the bed reaching towards him.

“Dean!” he shakes the limp hand trying, and failing to wake him. 

“He won’t wake up.” the woman at the table says. Sam lets go of Dean’s hand and swings back around to get a good look at her. 

She’s stunning for starters. Wavy golden hair, full lips and doe eyes that track his movements with a level of intelligence almost otherworldly. He spots a mole right above the bridge of her nose and her smile brings a pang of loss that he can’t exactly pinpoint.

“Who are you?” Sam asks.

“I’ll make this much easier and just tell you everything because as riveting as the conversation is, Sam Winchester, I’d rather have to go over the exact same thing I did with your brother. So save your questions for the end of my little spiel, yeah?”

“My brother… Wait.. How do you know my-” She delicately lifts one manicured pointer finger to her pursed lips and Sam finds himself trailing off as he watches her.

“Hmm, seems that particular human gesture works rather well,” she stares curiously at her finger before meeting his eye again. “Sometimes, it feels like men just don’t know how to be quiet and let a lady talk.” Sam huffs, indignation clear, but remains quiet.

The woman then begins her story. Her name is Jess, or at least that what he was told to call her. Jessica Moore. The vocalization of her true name somehow equals infinite slumber, which is a situation he’d rather avoid, at least right now. 

She’s the daughter of Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, and Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty and love. She explains her attempts to bring peace to parts of humanity and her subsequent conversation with Dean who showed her the error of her ways. And now she's doing her best to correct that by studying human patterns and growth for a little while.

“So, you’re currently in the form of the love of  _ my  _ life… in another life?” Sam’s still stunned at this bit of information, mind reeling to process every bit of information that’s been revealed in the past 10 minutes.

“Romantically, yes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I did not get the chance to tell Dean this, but in almost every version of Sam & Dean..." she says their names as if they are one entity, "...your souls are intertwined. A soul is not tangible, of course; it is not something you can hold or touch, at least on this plane of existence. Yet, the best way I can explain it is that you and Dean are connected. In some version, it is a simple knot, unbreakable and sure. There is nothing besides fraternal love between the two of you, as strong as it may be.

“In some other versions, like this one, your souls are tangled like wild vines. They wrap, knot, and grow around and nearly within each other. It is in cases like this where your codependency reaches levels unparalleled by every soul I’ve seen thus far.”

“So, what you’re saying that no matter what universe I exist in, Dean and I are destined to be overly close and codependent and that the only difference is that sometimes we choose to fuck and sometimes we don't?” Sam asks unable to keep the helpless sarcasm out of his voice.

“I wouldn’t put it as crudely or simply as that but that is mostly correct.”

“So in this universe or dimension or whatever the hell it is, I get the short end of the stick with not only the extreme codependency but an obedience curse,” he mutters more to himself than trying to engage Jess. 

“Oh, no. I can’t get into explicit detail because it would interfere with the complex entity of dimensions and time but I can tell you that there are versions of you and Dean that are far worse off than your current situation.”

“That still means that there are versions that are better though.” He can’t help the bitter bite in his voice as he chances a glance over at his brother in the other bed, sleeping peacefully and unaware. His faint freckles are highlighted in the low light of the moon outside. He’s plush lips contrasted with a heavyset jaw relaxed in sleep and absolutely beautiful. Despite his complaints, he can't imagine a world where he doesn't fall for Dean in every single facet and direction there possibly is to fall in.  He’s caught off-guard when he feels the bed dip with a warm weight by his side and soft hands grab his face. They are so unlike the ones he’s used to.

He’s used to hard, rough calloused hands. He’s grown accustomed to whorls of fingerprints always lightly dusted in gunpowder. Strength running from the edges of the palms to fingertips, sandpaper tough but mothering gentle. Movements ranging from firm and demanding to delicate and soothing. Hands as familiar as his owns, from the knots of knuckles to the blunt scraping of dirty nails.

What’s touching his face is foreign and new and not nearly as comforting as what he’s used to but as he looks into moss green eyes, he can’t help but to lean into the touch.

“Now, Sam Winchester, for some unfathomable reason, it seems I have grown attached and rather invested in your and Dean’s wellbeing. And while I can not personally interfere, I can warn you the same way I warned your brother. This mission you are on, to be free, is understandable, deserved even, but it is more dangerous than you think.”

“Wait, what!? You told my brother I was trying to break the fucking curse?” Sam tries to scramble up from the bed in a panic but Jess’ arms box him in with inhuman strength.

“Of course not,” Her voice is steady and calming, albeit a little chiding, as she holds down a 6’4” man with ease. Sam immediately stops struggling and stares at her in disbelief.

“Then, what did you tell him?” Even though Sam’s long since stopped trying to escape her grip, she continues to surround him with her presence. The floral perfume of her wafts off in restless waves and soothes any remaining tension in his frame. Long seconds pass before she leans back and answers.

“That’s between him and me, but he knows what he needs to do and what he needs to watch out for. Just like I did not disclose your trials to him, I will not disclose his trials to you.”

“But-”

“But, nothing,” She looks at him with unending patience and he finds his protest curdle in his throat.

“Ok. So, what’s this danger that’s worse than the demons already on my tail and my brother controlling my every move?”

“It’s less external threats and more internal battles that you will soon face.”

“Cryptic.”

She laughs and the soft cadence rings throughout the room with an astounding clarity. He looks over to make sure Dean is still asleep and is satisfied to see no movement except for a barely perceptible snuffle and a twitch of an eyelid.

“Indeed.” The humor fades from her features and they settle on a solemn expression that Sam unconsciously mimics “I know that your journey to break the control your brother has over you involves the constant use of your abilities as well as chasing leads concerning the yellow-eyed demon.”

“Yellow-eyed demon?”

“Yes. The one you know as Azazel is no mundane demon, but a powerful one, so corrupted that his eyes evolved from the black you are accustomed to, to a sickly yellow. At the core, your powers are neutral, the validity of them determined strictly by your intent, but I fear the closer you become to reaching Azazel, the darker you may become and subsequently, your powers will lean towards that darkness with you.”

“What? I’m not- I would never choose to be-“

“Sam Winchester, you should know now that intent isn’t always the determining factor. One of my favorite human quote is ‘The path to hell is paved with good intentions.’ I think it rings rather true in many situations. I know that you may believe that what you are trying to do the right thing and I currently agree, but selfish temptation becomes abundant when given abilities such as yours. All I’m asking of you is caution.

You are pure of heart, something I truly admire but being near Azazel, being influenced by him in any fashion, can dirty even the cleanest of souls. So, whenever anything leads you closer to him and breaking the curse, I want you to truly think over your actions before you proceed, not only for the sake of your soul but for the sake of humanity.”

“Are you saying that-”

“Of course, Samuel. Don’t feign ignorance. You know that playing with a fire this large will not just affect you. Hunters dabble in witchcraft, demons, monsters, and beasts and are always surprised when they almost start an apocalypse.” Sam feels a rush of hot blood under his cheeks and can’t help the indignation that comes along with it.

“All _I_ know is that my whole entire life has been a shit show since I was 6 months old. Not even a fucking year old yet. Everything shitty that happens seems to happen to me. I mean, I never saw our next door neighbor’s mother get burned on the ceiling. No one in my 5th-grade class could move things with their minds. None of my high school friends were some warped version of Ella Enchanted,” Sam’s voice is rising with every sentence. His anger is blurring his vision so he can’t even see what Jess is thinking, but at this point, he can’t bring himself to care, “So yeah, I thought that this fire was contained to me because I’m the only one who keeps getting burned. How was I supposed to know that I can apparently ruin human existence for all of humanity just because I was trying to make my own existence less hellish? I’m not some omnipotent goddess who knows the past, present, and future, all I know is what’s been happening with my life!”

The room is dead silent except for the soft inhales and exhales of  Dean in the next bed, oblivious and unbothered by the noise.

“You are right.”

“Huh. Wait, what?”

She sighs and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, even the simple motion having the elegance of royalty. “I tend to forget how narrow the field of vision is for human decision and no one has been quite as forward as you to remind me in quite some time. Omnipotent is a good way to describe me. I have the wisdom of millions of lifetimes and eyes in places you’ve never even heard of. I know you are doing your best and it is unwise and unfair to not acknowledge that.”

“Um, thanks.” Sam pushes his bangs out his eyes with much less grace than Jess and looks into the face of the woman he would have loved in another life, “I’m sorry I went off like that. My temper's been getting worse lately and sometimes it's hard to cap it. I truly do appreciate everything you’ve done and what you’re trying to do. If a goddess as gracious and intelligent as you is warning me, I’d be an idiot not to listen.” Jess blushes a light purple which looks oddly lovely on her face.

“I’m glad you will take my advice into consideration; it is the most I can ask of someone in your position.” She stands up and brushes imaginary dust from her dress that seems to swirl in the windless room. “I must be off now, lots to catch up on. I’m curious to see how humans have reinvented the world in these past few millennia. So far, I am not too impressed.” She looks around the dirty motel room with a slight hint of disgust and it’s Sam’s turn to blush. 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t judge humanity based off of this. This is just what we can afford off a hunter’s budget comprised of credit card scams and hustling.” 

“Hmmm. Well, it could be worse, I suppose.” she considers the rooms once more and then turns to him with one of most dazzling smiles he’s ever seen. “Well, I am off! Good luck with everything Sam Winchester. I wish you the absolute best.” 

She turns around as if to walk out the door, mundane and ordinary in fashion before Sam remembers something.

“Wait!” she turns around in a whirl of blond hair and lavender fabric.

“Yes?”

“One last question,” Sam looks over at Dean again before turning back to her questioning gaze, “How much longer will Dean be asleep?”

“About seven earthly hours. Why? Do you wish for me to allow you to sleep alongside him?”

Sam thinks for a few seconds, wishing he could, but knowing it’s not wise to have them both completely unaware and unwakeable for more than a couple hours.

“Thanks, but I’m good.” He smiles, at her. It’s hesitant and as he watches her go, he feels that foreign pain of loss once again. “Good luck with everything, Jess.”

“And you as well, Sam Winchester.”  She stops with a single hand on the doorknob before turning back around and laying a soft kiss on his cheek. “Know that, as dark as it may get with your brother, you will always be stronger together than apart.” She walks out the door with a finality that sinks something dark into his heart but leaves him feeling just that much lighter.

He checks his phone, the bright fluorescent screen announcing 3:01 AM. 7 hours. He could definitely use it. He flips it closed with a satisfying clack and places it on the nightstand. He lays back down trying to process when the sound of artificial chimes ring out near his head.

Sitting up, he reaches for his phone once again as the phone chirps three more times in quick succession. He flips it open, checking his notifications. It’s four texts from a number he’s never seen before, but the signature in the last text makes his stomach plummet, filling him with a dreaded sort of hope.

_ I know you’re in DE. _

_ Meet me in the Appoquinimink Library in Middletown _

_ I’ve got another lead. -M. _

It's Marcus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify some things in case they weren't super clear or it was forgotten from earlier chapters written weeks ago. 
> 
> \- Dean's true love was Cassie Robinson from season 1 episode 13 "Route 666", she was a character that only showed up once, but I really really loved her and her connection with Dean so I picked her over Lisa/Jo. 
> 
> \- Sam's true love was Jessica Moore from the Pilot and the one that he basically started the whole crusade for at the beginning of the series. 
> 
> \- Marcus is the demon from Chapter 3 that was responsible for teaching Sam how to use his powers and helps him with leads on Azazel. 
> 
> Hopefully, it's all making sense and you are all enjoying. This was unbeta'd (like the rest of the chapters) so if you catch of mistake, lemme know. I appreciate all comments and kudos y'all give.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a recap for those who need it since I took a while to post: 
> 
> Previously on "Chaos Contained"...
> 
> Sam and Dean were investigating a case where people were sucked up into a bright purple light only to come back with varying cases of narcolepsy. Turns out it's the daughter of Aphrodite (goddess of love and beauty) and Hypnos (god of sleep) who was just tryna help some people get some sleep. Unfortunately, she didn't know that modern technology can make narcolepsy seriously hazardous. She visits Sam and Dean masquerading as the love of their lives in some other universe (Jessica Moore and Cassie Robinson, respectively) and warns them about upcoming danger. Sam then gets some texts from Marcus (the demon who has been training his powers) telling him he's got a new lead.

_I know you’re in DE._

_Meet me in the Appoquinimink Library in Middletown._

_I’ve got another lead. -M._  

Sam stares down at his phone again. He ignores the first text; he’s long over the fact that the demon always seems to know where he is. He’s asked about it once and all it amounted to was a derisive snort from Marcus and some cryptic bullshit analogy.

_Meet me in the Appoquinimink Library in Middletown._

_I’ve got another lead. -M._

It’s this second and third text that’s got every last hair on his arms standing at attention with the stiffness of a British Royal Guard. He’s normally the one that reaches out first which usually leads to a vague update or no news at all. On the rare occasion, he’ll actually get a date, a place, and a time in short sharp words before the dial tone hums. To be honest, until now, he wasn’t even sure that the demon knew how to text.

Sam doesn’t trust Marcus, not by a long shot, but that doesn’t mean that Marcus isn’t trustworthy. His direct bluntness is always appreciated and constant no matter how shitty or shocking the situation may be.

For example, the third time that Sam had ever met with Marcus, he was told about demon blood. Somehow, this seemingly run of the mill demon knew almost everything about Sam’s powers, how to develop them, how to strengthen, even how to weaken them. He just didn’t know where they came from. He speculated that they were a natural gift or maybe they were given to him and/or enhanced by Azazel, but Marcus seemed just as puzzled as Sam when it came to their origins. 

According to him, one way to enhance his “gift” was demon blood (Sam didn’t even want to think about the implications of that). Marcus had told him that demon blood was the fastest and simplest way to defeat any threats that would come their way. Skills that would take months to train and perfect could be done with a quick shot of devil juice, chaser optional. And that’s why Marcus told him he should never _ever_ resort to drinking it.

Demon blood is like crack on crack, addictive and powerful. Once it has its claws in you, it never truly lets you go. It infects every single cell in your body creating a reliance more toxic and co-dependent than the levels even Sam and Dean could reach. And once the craving starts, they don’t stop. One drop turns into one sip into one cup into one liter until you’re funneling demon blood like a freshman funnels beer at a frat party. And the after effects of drinking the blood would make that first-time frat party hangover seem like winning the lottery. (Marcus always has such a way with words)

Marcus was upfront about this and warned Sam that this “shortcut” wasn’t worth it. No matter how fast it would get them to Azazel, the road afterward would be too broken to recover from and there would be nothing left to celebrate that victory if he ever became too reliant on blood. It shouldn’t even be a last resort. It should be the resort _after_ the last resort. Sam can recall the earnest look in Marcus’ eyes as he told him about the perils of the blood and it was then that he decided that maybe Marcus wasn’t like every black-eyed son-of-a-bitch roaming the Earth.

Thinking about it, it would’ve been so easy for Marcus to ease Sam into a reliance on the blood, to leave Sam strung out for days until he got another hit, but he didn’t. Through every headache and failure, Marcus was there was everlasting patience and words of wisdom disguised under heavy sarcasm and witty remarks. For some reason, Marcus wanted Sam to come out of this battle alive and mostly intact.

Sam glances over at his brother sleeping peacefully in the bed next to him, snuffling noises breaking the heavy silence. Jess’ warning rings heavy in his ear.

_“You are pure of heart, something I truly admire but being near Azazel, being influenced by him in any fashion, can dirty even the cleanest of souls. So, whenever anything leads you closer to him and breaking the curse, I want you to truly think over your actions before you proceed. Not only for the sake of your soul but for the sake of humanity.”_

Basically, he has to exercise caution in some vague way or else he’ll possibly destroy humanity. Easy-peasy. His fingertips unconsciously raise to the sides of his forehead to rub the tension from his temples.

Jess said he has 7 hours until Dean wakes up and he has 6 hours before the first signs of the separation headache kick in, so he should be golden. Most likely it’s some demon that he has to interrogate for answers which usually takes about 30 minutes at the most, especially now that he’s honed in his interrogation techniques.

God, that sounds so demented but he’s hurting the demon, never the human. In fact, he’s saving the human, just like their unofficial family motto says.

_Saving people, hunting things, the family business._

Sam can still remember John reciting it when Sam’s complaints rose above the usual levels. 

~~~~~~~~

_“We aren’t some normal family, Sam. We’re the Winchesters. And what do Winchesters do? “_

_“Constantly endanger ourselves and run around the country with 40 weapons in the back of our car like some sort of hick serial killers.”_

_John chooses to ignore that comment._  

_“Dean, can you tell your brother what do we do as Winchester? Apparently, Sam has hit the angst stage in this little teenage rebellion of his.”_

_“We save people and hunt things, sir,” God, they sound some kind of dumb cult family with a brainwashing slogan and everything, but John just thinks it sounds 'dignified' and reminds him of his time as a Marine. Apparently, they had all sorts of slogans they used to recite while marching in the rain for 5 hours with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the love and America in their hearts. Dean gives Sam a sly look at the note approval in their dad’s eye. Sam glares daggers back but that doesn’t stop Dean from wiggling his eyebrows and it takes everything in Sam’s willpower to push back his smile._

_“Yes, son.” John pats Dean on the back. “The family business.”_

Sam slides off the bed and swipes the motel key from the kitchen table and throws on his jacket. He takes one last look at Dean before shutting the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~

“What the fuck are we doing here, Marcus?”

Marcus is currently leaning back against a chalky white pillar of the Appoquinimink Library watching lazily as Sam paces at the bottom of the steps outside of the library. When he had first gotten there, he tried to storm past Marcus into the library but was stopped by firm words and an even firmer arm.

“I told you, Sammy.” Marcus absently picks dirt from beneath his fingertips looking completely unbothered, “We’re just waiting for her to cool down.”

“Who? Also, It’s Sam, not Sammy.” 

“Whatever, a rose is a rose and just as sweet by any other name and you… seem to be just as bitchy no matter what I call you.” Marcus pushes off the pillar of the library and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his navy cardigan. “What’s with your outfit?” 

Sam looks down at his outfit completely forgetting that he’s still wearing the get-up from the club and flushes in slight embarrassment. He wraps his jacket around himself tighter and stares evenly back at Marcus.

“Stop trying to deflect. Who is she?”

“Why would I ruin the surprise?” Marcus looks absently around the clear night sky and nods his head as if something is finally confirmed, “Doesn’t matter; she’s ready now. You ready Samuel?” 

Sam ignores Marcus’ outstretched hand and climbs the steps two at a time leaving a slightly disgruntled Marcus trailing behind him. Sam pushes the double doors open with a hearty shove and rusted creak of old wood. 

“I have to warn you, Sam. This is a demon, no matter what it may look like it’s still a-”

“What the fuck, Marcus!” In the middle of the library, surrounded by a complicated looking devil’s trap, is a child. She’s no more than 10 years old with curly red ringlets framing cheeks that are still puffed up with baby fat. Her doll face is completed with big blue eyes, a button nose and pursed lips that have a blue tinge as though she’s been eating some sort of candy. She’s in a fluffy blue dress to match. It's almost completely soiled with rusted blood stains. Her eyes are almost blank as she regards Sam with a smile that’s more likely to be classified as a sneer. Her little fists are clenched by her side making her look like she’s ready to throw a tantrum rather than snap a neck. Under her nose is thick caked drying blood that actually looks like hers and Sam turns around to see Marcus looking hesitant and unsure and that’s all Sam needs.

He feels the live wire that’s tapped into his powers uncoil and heat rapidly and lashes out towards Marcus and throws him directly into the YA section. The invisible grip on Marcus' neck tightens.

“What the fuck did you do to her, you sick freak! There’s a child underneath the demon, A FUCKING KID! I swear to God, Marcus…” unconsciously he feels each surge run stronger and stronger threatening to pull Marcus under permanently until little girl laughter interrupts. 

“Silly Sammy. Marcus would never hurt me. Somehow, some of that pesky human soul remains in him and he just can’t bring himself to actually harm little ole me.” Sam immediately drops Marcus to the ground who is rubbing his throat looking more upset than angry and it cools some of the fire in him. He gives Marcus an apologetic look before whipping around to see the little girl twirling around the edges of the demon trap. "It's actually pretty impressive that he managed to trap me without actually hurting me. Weak and stupid, but impressive."

Her skirts flairs up and down as her spins speed up and slows down and Sam watches the hypnotic scene until she stops in the dead center of the trap and sticks a bloody thumb in her mouth.

“Some meanie demons did this to me because they were jealous of how close I am with the boss, but they are all gone now. Bye-bye.” Her words are muffled around her thumb and her other hand comes up as if to wave goodbye to him. 

“Who are you?” 

“Well, my mommy and daddy called me Abby but they’re gone now. My name is Jaliathe.” On the last word her voice tilts down dangerously and it’s the first time Sam really sees the demon lurking behind. “I heard that you want information on the big boss, but I’m sorry I can’t do that mister. Azazel trusts me and he’s a lot scarier than you are.” She sticks her tongue out at him and blows a huge raspberry before flopping down onto her butt, arms crossed over her chest.

Sam turns back towards Marcus. 

“You can’t be serious. I can’t do this. I mean… It’s a kid, Marcus. I can’t hurt her.”

“It’s a demon, Sam. I tried to tell you this before you put in a fucking chokehold,” he rubs his throat as though it's still sore. “Plus, you’ll be hurting the demon, not the little girl, if she’s even still alive.”

Sam drops his face into his hands blocking out the bloody little girl whistling something juvenile. “Fuck.” He lifts his head where Marcus is watching patiently, question obvious in the creases of his face.

“Okay. Let’s do it.” Sam answers.

“For real? That’s it? No twenty-minute speech on ethics?”

“What other option do I have? Let the demon stay inside her? Plus, like you said, I’ll be hurting the demon, not her.” Briefly, Sam thinks about what Jess told him, but it doesn’t matter. There aren’t any better alternatives to his plan. Even if he wasn’t trying to get information, he would never leave a demon traipsing the world in a little girl who’s probably scared out of her mind, if she’s even still there. No. Stop. He can’t think like this right now. 

“Of course, but that’s not what it’s going to feel like.”

“I know that.” Sam steels himself and approaches the red spray of the devil’s trap and the demon within. He wonders what the staff are gonna think of all the symbols painted into the floor. Aliens? A cult? Satan worshippers? Doesn’t matter. He’ll be long gone by then.

“I’ll make a deal with you right now. Tell me what you know right now and I’ll send you back to hell, quick and easy. Don’t and I’ll still get my information, but it’s going to be a lot more painful for the both of us and you’ll end up dead instead of hanging with your friends downstairs.”

“Sorry, Sammy. You know I can’t do that.” And the worst part of it was that she actually looks sad, eyes watering and small sniffles and Sam feels something break down. Anyone might call it the actions of a coward or someone who isn’t willing to face up to what he has to do, but to Sam, it’s the only possible way he can do it.

Closing his eyes, he stretches his hands out until he hears screaming, shrill and scared and Sam keeps his eyes clenched shut. He pauses and picks it back up to fresh screams, he twists it around targeting different areas with various pain levels, uses every last trick and turn until the voice turns hoarse and useless and then he keeps going, eyes shut the entire time. 

“Sam. SAM!” Sam’s not sure if it’s seconds, minutes or hours later when he hears Marcus yelling his name. “I think she’s ready to talk.”

He finally opens his eyes to find Jaliathe absolutely devastated, eyes bloodshot and tear tracks marring her cheeks. Sam sees dribbles of snot leaking from her nose mixing with crusted blood and ignores the urge to find some tissues to clean her up with.

“Jaliathe, where is he?”

“I don’t know where he is, but I know where he’s going to be.” Her voice is shot to hell and barely audible even in the silence of the library, but it sounds older and less like the child she is inside. That helps, if only a little. “He’s planning to be in Flagstaff. I hear it’s near the Grand Canyon, I’ve always wanted to see it when I was on Earth, guess I can’t now.” She sounds like she’s going to start crying again and Sam has trouble differentiating between the demon and the little girl, but he persists.

“What is he doing in Flagstaff?”

“Turning more kids into monsters and meanies like you."

“Like me? Why? How?” Sam’s head is spinning at all the information. He’s never been this close before.

“You can’t think you’re the only one, Sammy. Nobody is _that_ special. As for the why, I’ve never really questioned him before. He’s so smart, he’s going to lead us into a new era. And the how… well, that’s his little secret. He doesn’t even trust his closest followers with that secret,” she yawns and rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands, “Can you kill me now? I’m tired.” 

“Um…” 

“Wait! I almost forgot I need to tell you something,” she giggles covering her mouth with bloodstained hands. “I know you’re going to go after him after this but I just thought you should know it’s going to get worse.”

It takes Sam a couple seconds to find his voice, “What gets worse?”

“Everything,” her face lights up at the word, “And not just for you, but for Deanie Beanie too! Have you ever noticed moments or times where you felt your dependence on Dean grow stronger for seemingly no reason? Well, the truth was it was Azazel. The closer you get to him the more you and Dean will feel the effects. You’ll want to submit to Dean in every way, you’ll be in such a state of reliance you won’t even know up from down. You'll be his little bitch, even more than you are now!" The swear word sounds ugly, twisted and alien in the little mouth.

“And Dean! Dean will be right with you because if you think you’ve seen possessiveness, wait until you get even remotely close to Azazel. You will barely be a person to him at this point, but an object to control and own and possess. You’ll be his most valuable object, but an object nonetheless.”

Sam sucks in a deep breath trying to get air in a place where he feels the wall closing in on him. 

“Sam…” Marcus tries to interject in the background.

“Not now, Marcus,” he turns back to Jaliathe, “Why would you tell me this?” 

“You made me hurt, Silly. And I want you to hurt too! I know you’ll still go after him, even after all I told you, but it’s nice to die knowing that you’ll suffer the whole time. I love knowing that the fear in your eyes, right now, is because of me. And since it's the last thing I'll see, that makes me happy.” 

Sam stands abruptly and hastily puts space between him and Jaliathe. She giggles up at him and waves once more and Sam closes his eyes and reaches out his hand once more. 

He’s fast with it this time, there’s no need to try and draw out pain and torture. It’s a simple search and he stamps the life out of the demon with a quick snap. He hears the signature crackle of electricity and the brief and overwhelming smell of sulfur before opening his eyes to see a small body crumpled in front of him.

He shuffles forwards, stumbling with speed and lack of coordination, and slides down to this knees, completely oblivious of the hot rug burn through the thin material of his pants. Shaky fingers find the pulse point on the thin pale neck and search and search and search and… 

Feel nothing. 

Sam draws the body close to him. Sobs wracking every inch of his body and he can feel himself shaking. His crying is ugly and loud, staccato hiccups and gasps intermingled with shuddering whines that barely audible. He hasn’t cried like this since he was 5 and watched a stray dog run in front of the Impala and felt the bump and crunch of each bone under the vinyl seats. Despair, grief, and loss all swirl, bundle, and shoot sharp needles into every tendon in his body. He crushes the feeble and empty body closer to his and lets himself get lost in desolation.

~~~~~~~~ 

Sam unlocks the door to the front of the motel and glances at the clock: 6:10 AM. It hasn’t even been 4 hours but it feels like he hasn’t been back in this room for at least a few lifetimes.

After his breakdown, Marcus had helped him. He ignored Sam’s total loss of composure and instead used that time to pry Sam from the body and wrap her in a plain curtain from one of the windows. He led Sam back to the Impala's passenger seat and gently placed Jaliathe's... no... Abby’s body into the backseat before getting behind the wheel.

He told Sam that he didn’t know about those particular side effects of the curse and Sam didn’t really have any energy left to do anything but believe him. According to Marcus, Jaliathe wasn’t lying about Abby’s parents being gone either. Before Sam has arrived, Jaliathe had regaled Marcus with tales of her pasts murders including the little girl’s parents who she tore apart with a kitchen knife in their small suburban home in Michigan.

Sam had felt an instant of relief before a crushing guilt took its place. He shouldn’t be happy that Abby’s parents are dead but it feels better than knowing that they would still be out there searching for their little girl who would never come back. Sam felt the prickle of fresh tears and had hastily wiped them away.

In the middle of some woods, they built a pyre from some dry wood and he watched the flames lick away all remnants of that night. 

Marcus had driven him back to the motel and made him promise to call him when he reached Flagstaff as Sam numbly nodded in response and grabbed the keys from the ignition.

~~~~~~~~

Dean is still asleep on the bed when he steps out of the shower. He quickly dresses in some worn jeans and a graphic tee from the bottom of his duffle. He glances at his bed and then at Dean’s and then back at his.

His sheets are rumpled and empty and Dean looks so warm and like home and safety and Sam’s too exhausted to care. He pulls back the sheets and Dean rolls over in his sleep so that he’s now on his back, arm crossed over his torso haphazardly. 

Sam slides in next to him removing his arm and wrapping it around himself. He places his head on Dean’s chest and the steady chest beating beneath relaxes the tension in his stomach. Throwing his arm around Dean and curling up against him, he feels his heart clench as the arm around him tightens. He sits up expecting to see Dean staring down at him, angry and ugly, but instead, he sees Dean’s eyes closed and face peaceful in sleep. Real sleep.

Sam settles back in and lets the _thumpthumpthump_ lull him to sleep.

~~~~~~~~

Dean wakes up with a numb arm and a weird sense of utter tranquility. He tries to sit up but finds a heavy weight on his chest and begins to panic before realizing that weight has a bundle of unruly curls and is literally cuddling him.

Dean lets himself lay back down feeling more relaxed than he can remember before it all comes rushing back like a bucket of cold water to the face.

_Purple Light._

_Gay Bar._

_Sam drugged at a Gay Bar._

_Murder._

_Double Murder._

_Cassie._

Fuck. Fuck! It won’t be long before the cops connect the dots. I mean they might be incompetent, but he killed two men in public and he didn’t even check for witnesses.

Fuck! 

He was just so caught up in his anger and it was almost like he couldn’t control his trigger finger until it was too late. And now that the whole narcolepsy issue is solved and taken care of it, there’s literally no reason to be here anymore. 

“Get up, Sammy.” He shakes his brother awake who’s bleary-eyed and obviously confused, but Dean doesn’t have time for it.

“We’ve got to go now. Pack your shit and get in the car.” Dean infuses authority in his tone and isn’t surprised when Sam complies immediately. What he is surprised about is the fact that Sam isn’t yelling at him. It’s not like he took away his ability to speak and right now is usually the part where Sam yells at him for using his abilities to control him in a seemingly unwarranted situation.

“Look, I’m sorry for using it on you right now, I really am. It’s just that it’s an emergency and I’ll explain later, we just don’t have the time right now. I'm so used to you questioning half the moves I make, I didn't wanna waste time arguing, but now you're kinda scaring me with this silent act shit.”

Sam doesn’t pause from his packing, of course, but he looks up at Dean and he just looks tired. 

“I’m fine, Dean. Just tired and I don’t feel like arguing right now. I’m sure whatever your reasons are, they’re good enough for you to be doing this though I wish you had just asked but I get that you couldn’t chance that.” 

“Ummm…” Dean’s stunned into silence because something must be seriously wrong in order for Sam to just give in like this, but that’s for later. Now, it’s time to get the hell out dodge.  “You can sleep in the car. I can turn on one of those soft rock stations; those always knock you right out,”

Sam just gives him a tired smile. “Sure, Dean.” He walks out the door, shuffling, dragging steps and Dean has to physically push all his worries to the back of his mind. By the time he finishes packing and hops into the car, Sam is asleep. His cheek is pressed against the window and his neck is tilted at what must be an uncomfortable angle, but his face is completely smoothed out in sleep.

Dean rearranges Sam until he looks passably comfortable, or at least as comfortable as you can get when trying to sleep upright in the Impala. He starts the car and finds a soft rock station as promised before switching gears and riding the hell out of Delaware. 

~~~~~~~~

Dean’s been driving aimlessly for about 3 hours when Sam wakes up. He looks disoriented but his posture immediately relaxes when he sees Dean and damn if that doesn’t satisfy something primal in Dean. 

“Finally up, sleepyhead?” Dean finally tears his eyes off of Sam to focus on the road.

“For now,” Sam yawns and Dean watches the white streaks of pavement blur by. “So, where exactly are we headed.”

“I’m not sure yet. We just had to get out of there. I’m sorry again, I just reacted and I didn’t think and-”

“It’s fine, Dean. I said it earlier and I meant it. Just forget it, okay.” Dean glances over once more just to make sure Sam’s not mad because while Sam can disguise his emotions with the finesse of a conman, his face is a dead giveaway for Dean. But all Dean sees is the resignation in the worry lines etched into Sam’s face and that makes him even more scared than the anger could ever. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Sammy? If you wanna punch me or something, I’ll give you a freebie as soon as we're off the road. Just try not to mess up the money maker too much,” Dean sees a small smile glaze over Sam’s face that fades just as fast. 

“I’m fine, but Dean…” Sam trails off slightly looking at Dean as though he wants to say something but can’t force the words out.

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“Do you have any idea where you wanna go?” Sam gestures to the road ahead of them.

“Mmmm, not really. I mean, I didn’t have the chance to research any leads since we were kinda caught in the middle of this one, but that's all settled now and…” Dean watches Sam slowly nod and forehead crease in concentration and he has just enough insight to ask “… Why? Was there somewhere you wanted to go?”

“Actually,” Sam says turning towards Dean with a slight light in his eyes that’s an odd mix of terror and hope. “I was thinking we could see the Grand Canyon.”

Dean pauses for a full moment. Confusion battles with the sincere expression on Sam’s face.

“The Grand Canyon?”

“Yeah, I’ve always kind of wanted to go and we haven’t had a break in a while and well…” there’s a pause in Sam’s words before he finishes. “…I heard there’s a nice city nearby we could stay in, Flagstaff actually. We could get a motel and maybe watch the sunrise over the Grand Canyon.”,

“Really?” Dean can’t really piece the picture together but he’s trying for Sam’s sake. He hears a sigh.

“Never mind, Dean.”

“No, no, no…” Dean’s quickly backtracking at the dejected note in Sam’s voice. “We can go to Flagstaff and do a bunch of sappy shit near a giant crater in the Earth if that's what you really want. I think we deserve a nice break for once and hopefully, the world won't fall apart for a couple days without us.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean ignores the weird niggling knot of apprehension in his gut. “Let’s go to the Grand Canyon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love validation!!! Comments and kudos are hella appreciated :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but another chapter is here! School is kicking my ass and I didn't even do the HW due tomorrow so I decided to do this instead. Hope y'all enjoy and everything is making sense.

“So, when I talked to Jess, she said that you two also had a similar conversation. Is that true?” Dean stops drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to throw a questioning glance at Sam.

“Who?”

“Jess.” There’s a pause to wait for some sort of recognition on Dean’s part. When he stays silent, Sam continues, “You know, blonde hair, green eyes... Jess!”

“Nope, that’s not clearing anything up.”  Dean hears an exaggerated sigh. It’s the same exaggerated sigh that’s usually followed by some lengthy explanation tinted with a condescending tone. So, Dean waits for it and Sam doesn’t disappoint.

“Jess,” he repeats like the first two times weren’t enough to get it through Dean’s thick head, ”She was the one behind the whole purple light thing and the daughter of the Greeks Gods Aphrodite and Hypnos. Apparently, you helped solve her little narcolepsy dilemma or something. Do you seriously not remember any of that?” Sam’s tone starts to bridge on hysterics.

“Of course I remember,” Dean takes his eyes off the road for a couple seconds just to see Sam’s frame relax before turning back. “Only she was Cassie to me. I didn’t even know that you two had traded words, to be honest. I was so caught up that I forgot to mention my own little run-in with her. 

“Actually, I don’t know if she told you, but she appears as the female love of your life for each person. And wouldn’t it be kind of awkward if  “my great love” was also Jess? I mean, I’d be down for some threesome action, but I had the vibe that it wasn’t supposed to work like that.”

For a few moments, nothing but the low lull of some nameless Bon Jovi song fills the car.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Well, that’s always been true, Sammy. Glad you’re finally owning up to it.” 

“Shut up,” There’s no malice in it. “I’m sorry, Dean. She did tell me about all that “great love” and switching bodies stuff. I’m just a little stressed and so much has been happening. I forgot and took it out on you.” Dean pats Sam’s knee and shakes it reassuringly. 

“No problemo, bro. If you’re still feeling stressed, I know one sure fire way to get you to relax.” The words are as sleazy as he can possibly make them and Sam seems to get the connotation if his eye roll is any indication.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Sam turns to look back out the window. “How much further until Flagstaff?”

“Um…” Dean’s silent, looking for the nearest mile marker. “A little over 1000 miles. So, we’re almost halfway there.” Sam groans, leans his head back against the window and closes his eyes. 

“Thought you wanted to talk about Cassie/Jess? We could call her Cess or Jassie. Oh, I know. Jessie.” Sam keeps his head against the window, eyes still closed. “What? Don’t you think Jessie is a cute name?”

“What’s the point? It happened and now it’s over.” Dean’s confused. Sam usually always wants to talk about pointless shit. I mean, he’s the one who brought it up in the first place. Plus, he’s kind of curious about what Cassie/Jess said to Sam. If it was anything like what she said to Dean, there might be something important he’s hiding. 

“You don’t wanna talk about it? Since when? You always wanna talk about everything.”

“I’m not in the mood, anymore. I’m just tired, Dean.” Dean lets it sit for a couple seconds. Maybe it’s best to let these sleeping dogs lie.

“Yeah, ok. Get some more rest, Sammy. We’ll switch off in an hour or two.” 

“Sure.” 

~~~~~~~~

It starts as a nudge of a thought, 30 minutes after Sam falls asleep. It’s a quick glance over and Dean sees Sam’s face relaxed, pink lips parted in sleep.

And behind those bright pink lips is a warm pink mouth. And into that warm pink mouth is a tight pink throat. 

Dean adjusts in the seat trying to alleviate the tightness in his jeans but it does nothing. He can’t help but draw his eyes back to Sam even as the road rushes in front of him. He’s just sitting there, unassuming, innocent, weak, and ready to defile…

Shit. 

What’s that even supposed to mean? ‘ _ Ready to defile?’  _ He sounds like some sort of rapey weirdo who probably keeps journals of all his fucked up fantasies written in some emo-type prose. But he just can’t help it. It’s this undeniable tug that’s pushing him towards something putrid and vile. Something rotten yet undeniably right.

“Sam.” he shakes his sleeping brother awake with one hand, unable to be alone with just his thoughts and his persistent hard-on. 

“What,” Sam’s groggy and absently rubbing sleep from his eyes. He yawns once, those pink lips opened on nothing but the air between them. What a waste. “What do you want, Dean?” 

“I’m horny.” Sam’s eyes slide towards the bulge in Dean’s denim with his eyebrows raised.

“And?”

“You wanna help your brother out?”

“You want me to give you road head?” Sam’s voice is pitched in incredulity. 

“I’m driving us to Grand friggin’ Canyon for some chick flick moment. The least you can do is repay me with a little road head,” Dean tries to keep his voice even but he’s getting impatient, lust consuming all rational thought. In fact, he can’t even believe he’s asking. Sam should be begging to suck his dick after all the bullshit Dean does for him. After practically raising Sam, giving him almost everything he’s ever wanted and needed, Sam should be more grateful. 

These intrusive thoughts circle around like water in a clogged drain. Dean knows each thought is wrong and not even remotely like him, but that doesn’t stop them from coating his tongue and brain.

“Are you serious right now?” Sam’s voice is a dull afterthought that does nothing but stirs up his anger. 

“Of course I’m serious, you ungrateful little bitch.” Dean can’t help but let the words tumble from his mouth, caustic and sharp.  

“Dean,” Sam’s voice is a soft contrast, hesitance peeking through each syllable, “Are you feeling okay?” 

“No, I’m fucking not!” Dean swerves to the side of the empty road stamping on the brake with a forceful brutality. “I need to fuck you so hard that all you know is me. I wanna cram myself down your throat until the only air you breath is _me._ Fuck!” Dean slams his hands down on the wheel making sure to look at nothing but the hair on his knuckles and the torn vinyl on the steering wheel. One look at Sam will break the little willpower he has over himself right now.

“I can barely fucking control myself right now, and I’m spitting out these weird fucking phrases that sound like cheap erotica, but I can’t help but mean every single word, Sam. Every. Single. Fucking. Word. Sam. I don’t… I can’t… Sammy...”

“Dean,” the pull of Sam makes him look up into those multi-colored eyes. Sam’s face is filled with resignation and something else like he knows something Dean doesn’t. But it doesn’t matter because he’s absolutely beautiful and all his. “We’re about halfway to Arizona and I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me.” Sam’s voice is a sweet cadence that rings with condescendence. It’s like he’s soothing a spooked horse that’s afraid of its own shadow. He takes a deep breath and pauses, each second longer than the next and meets Dean’s eyes with a hint of fear but mostly determination. 

“So, if you want, you can do whatever you need to do. Whatever you want to do.” 

In any normal situation, Dean would’ve taken the time to parse out exactly what Sam means and why he's saying it, but for now, none of that matters. It’s all about getting his hands on Sam as soon as possible. It’s late, around 4 AM on the backroads of rural Oklahoma, not a solitary car to pass them, but it wouldn’t matter if it was rush hour in LA traffic.

“Get in the back seat, there’s lube in the passenger’s side back pocket but don’t touch it. I’ll prep you myself. Don’t talk until I get back there. Don’t even fucking move from the backseat until I say so.” Sam goes to open the door and the swift obedience satisfies every last itch on Dean’s skin but just a small amount of sanity springs forward. 

“Sam, wait,” Sam turns around, questions clear in his eyes. Dean manages to push the words through a haze of blinding lust and all-consuming need for dominance. “Thank you.” He grabs Sam’s face pulling them together and seals it in a hot, messy kiss. All tongue, searching and invasive, staking his claim on the buds of wet flesh. He pulls them apart with his last breath, lips close enough that damp air from each brother intermingles in the space between. “I’m sorry.”

Sam nods, eyes bright and hazy, strangely understanding. Dean swallows down the last bit of morality that's still scratching at the surface and lets himself be consumed by it all. “Backseat, now.” 

Sam opens the door, hands steady on the scuffed chrome of the handle while Dean watches his own hands shake in comparison with absolute excitement. 

Deep breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Stay completely in control. 

Control. 

He wants it more than a pregnant woman having cravings at 3 am, but he can’t hurt Sammy. Never hurt Sammy. Own, possess, control, yes, but never hurt.

At least not permanently. 

He climbs out the car almost stumbling over his feet in eagerness. Sam’s laid out in the back seat, door open and long, long legs hanging out. His shoes scrape over the cement as his legs swing in a stilted pendulum motion. He watches Dean approach, weary as Dean crowds into the spaces pushing Sam further into the car and flat onto his back. He grasps Sam’s face between grabby hands and pulls him in for one more intense kiss before pushing him back down onto the squeaking leather. 

The pocket in the back seat has 2 different lube bottles, condoms, and a couple discarded candy wrappers tucked within. Dean pulls out one of the lubes and the candy wrappers stick to some of the liquid congealed outside of the bottle. 

“No condoms?” It’s the first time that Sam’s spoken since Dean told him to shut up until he got into the backseat. Dean’s been so wrapped up in his own vision that he almost forgot the sound of his brother’s voice. And now it’s rambling senselessly, nervous and small. “It’s just that you’ve been so adamant about never getting come in the car. I can’t believe that even as crazed as you are right now that you would dirty up this car. And I just know that if you do, you’re gonna be pissed when you snap out of…” Sam trails off looking at Dean disbelieving like he can’t believe that those words just slipped out of his mouth. Dean can’t either. And just like that Dean is shaken out of the moment. It’s like the wild beast inside him is in shock at the break in such an intense moment that it subsides within him.  Only Sam could take such a crazy fucked up moment and cope by pointing out an irrelevant fallacy like Dean staining the leather with semen. 

“Huh…” He shakes his head trying to clear his thoughts. “Fuck…What am I doing?” 

“Dean?” Sam’s still too calm. “Is that… Are you feeling…”

“Sam, what the fuck is going on?” 

“It’s fine, Dean,” The bottle of lube is still sticky in Dean’s hand as he lets go with a delayed released as the slick momentarily sticks to the skin on his palm. 

“It’s fine?! It’s fine?! I nearly assaulted you in the backseat of the car and you think that this is  _ fine _ ? I literally couldn’t control myself and cussed you out over you not giving me road head! And this wasn’t the playful banter we trade back in forth, I was fucking serious, and that’s  _ fine _ ?”

“...” 

Dean gets out of the car and rubs his hands through the short spikes of hair on top of his head and sighs in frustration. Sam sheepishly climbs out of the car and slumps his body, trying to seem smaller, bangs falling in front of his face. 

“And the real fucking clincher of it all was the fact that you didn’t seem to be surprised at all,” Sam’s watching him wide eyes now, “You wanna tell me why, Sammy?” 

“Not really,” Sam mutters. In any other situation, he wouldn’t have heard the barely whispered comment, but it’s like all his senses are super attuned with Sam in mind. 

“What?  _ Not really _ ? So you know why this is happening and you’re not telling me. What the fuck, Sam?!” The panic on Sam’s face registers and Dean taps down the urge to make Sam spill it all. 

“Please, Dean. Just let me explain.” 

“Go ahead, but I swear if you’re lying-” 

“I won’t. It’s just a lot and I was afraid to tell you. Just don’t compel me, just let me…” he trails off watching Dean as though he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and Dean to force him to do another thing he doesn’t want to do. At this point, Dean can’t even stomach the idea of trying to make Sam do anything else, even though this small whining part of him begs to differ. He remains silent waiting for Sam to continue. Sam nods at the silence, realizing that Dean’s not gonna speak. 

“It was a demon.” Dean jolts off the car he’s leaning against. 

“A demon? An actual demon?” 

“Yeah.” Sam's lips upturn sardonically, “Black eyes and all. Do you remember when I went out to get coffee after we killed that Cyclops in Texas and you didn’t believe me.”  

Dean silently nods, not liking where this is headed. 

“Well, I wasn’t lying. I was getting coffee and I got stopped by a demon.” 

“Are you serious? Are you ok? What did it do to you? I’m gonna rip it’s fucking throat out!” Dean can’t help but get riled up, all his hackles rising at the thought of a demon near his brother.

“Woah, Dean. Calm down. I’m fine. Obviously. It just wanted to pass on a message.” Dean feels big hands wrap around his fist where he had been unconsciously embedding his nails into the fleshy part of his palm, drawing blood. Sam unclenches his fist slowly and leaves Dean’s palm openly dripping blood onto the rock beds on the side of the road. “Shit, Dean these are kinda deep.”

“Just leave ‘em. Tell me the rest.”

“One sec.” 

“Sam-” he draws the words out into a whine which doesn’t stop Sam from reaching back into the car and retrieving some off-brand alcohol from the bottom of the backseat. Sam unscrews the lid and pours some on the cuts on both of Dean’s hands. He doesn’t even feel the sting. Sam recaps it and throws it back into the car.

“He knew about to curse. He basically taunted me. Called me a couple of colorful names- Dean!” Sam breaks off again. “I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to literally mutilate yourself every time I tell you something slightly unsavory.” Dean looks down to see his nails digging further into the cuts that Sam just cleaned.

“Whatever, just keep going.” Dean’s too impatient to give a fuck about some superficial wounds.

“Ugh.” Sam just reaches back into the car once more and comes out with a slightly dirty rag and an old t-shirt. “Wrap these around your hands. Use the cleaner side of the rag.” Dean does as instructed and Sam continues to talk. 

“Anyway, he told me he knew about the curse. He knew about not only how it makes me complacent, but also how it makes you more dominant, uncontrolled. He said it was going to get worst, that there would be random bursts where we couldn’t control our impulses and we would just follow the nature of the curse without regard for the other. 

“Of course, he was much crasser than how I’m putting it, but yeah. I didn’t want you to worry, but I stayed out later that night just trying to process it all. I know I should’ve told you, but it was just a lot for me to handle and I thought it was best if you didn’t know.

So, when you started acting weird in the car, I was confused at first, but then I remembered what he said. I know you couldn’t control yourself. It wasn’t your fault, Dean. It still isn’t and I just didn’t want to aggravate it worse, so I was just going to ride it out until you snapped out of it.” Sam finishes searching Dean’s face for something implacable. Dean’s just processing trying to parse through each new bit of information. 

“He knows about the curse? A demon. An actual fucking demon knows about the curse.” Shit! That obviously can’t mean anything good. Demons are big, huge, fucking out-of-this-world level threats.  “Did he know anything else about it Where it came from? Anything about your powers?” Dean flexes around the soft-rough scratch of the rag and shirt wrapped around his hands while Sam purses his lips in mild thought. 

“Not that I remember. He mostly just seemed to be there to rile me up. He wasn’t real keen on giving out information and I was still kind of overwhelmed at the prospect of demons, so I didn’t really ask many questions, but I should’ve.” 

“It’s fine, Sammy. And that’s the truth?” Sam pauses for a quick moment. So fast, it would be imperceptible to most anyone. Anyone but Dean. “Yeah, Dean.” 

“Sam,” his voice takes on an edge of warning before a bolt of lightning strikes through his gut and he doubles over. 

“Dean!” Sam rushes over to him. Two steps and he’s in Dean’s face, warm hands cradling his face and bright hazel eyes boring into his and everything feels right. Better than right. His cock hardens, filling rapidly and he feels his heart rocket and the beast claw from the depths of his stomach. Any thoughts he had have been struck from his mind.

“Fuck, it's happening again. I guess your stupidity can only confuse this stupid fucking curse momentarily.” Dean tries to laugh through the pain of holding it back, but it comes out more like a sob. 

“It’s fine, Dean. You can let it go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You have my absolute permission. Just nothing too kinky, you perv.” Dean call tell Sam is doing his best to lighten up this situation and it almost makes Dean cry. Sam’s all little-kid earnest and trusting and Dean knows this  _ want  _ needs to ruin every last shred of that innocence. 

The pain becomes overwhelming, an inferno of lust and need rushes through his body like a charge on a livewire and Dean…. Dean lets it. 

It’s how they end up on the side of the road, rocks gouging into Sam’s knees as Dean fucks into Sam’s mouth like it’s nothing more than a fleshlight. Sam’s gagging and choking on each thrust, barely enough oxygen getting through as Dean smashes his face against the thatch of hair on his groin. Usually, Dean holds back some modicum. It’s not bragging if it’s true, but his cock’s not exactly manageable when it comes to deepthroating. Sam usually has to take it at his own speed, but now every concern besides Dean’s own pleasure is in the back of his mind. 

Sam’s throat is convulsing around the head of his dick, weaker and weaker with each pulse and Dean feels exhilarated, absolutely alive with power. He pushes deep into that clutch of damp, tight heat and holds on a couple seconds longer than he would on any other occasion. Naturally, Sam starts to struggle. He can’t help it, his body panicking at the threat of no air, but he’s no match for Dean’s newfound strength. It’s like a bug fighting against the sole of a shoe.

Dean savors every last clench of wet muscle and finally pulls a no longer struggling Sam off his cock. Sam’s eyes are hazy and unfocused with oxygen deprivation. He can barely hold his head up, but Dean’s hands buried in the thick chestnut strands keep him upright. 

There’s a mess of drool and precome falling carelessly from open, swollen lips. Tears streak down his rosy face and there’s even a bit of snot running down his nose from crying. It’s beautiful. It’s barely a whisper, but Sam manages to focus his eyes for a second and look at Dean. 

“It’s okay, Dean.” Dean snorts a laugh and shoves his cock back to the root into the open and waiting mouth without hesitation relishing the muffled gags. Dean smiles, feeling better than he has in a while. 

Of course, it’s okay.

It’s better than okay. 

This is his property; his to mold, shape, break and build back up from the shattered pieces. He fucks without worry but still conscious enough not to permanently damage what’s his. He comes buried in the warm throat and lets out of groan of satisfaction as he pulls Sam back off his cock. Sam manages to look up at him once more, Dean likes to think it’s a look of pure reverence before his eyes roll back and he passes out slumped against Dean’s knee.

And just like that Dean’s back. 

He takes in the scene. The warm weight of his brother slumped against him on an empty road, Dean’s soft cock still hanging out of the denim of his jeans, wet with his release combined with his brother’s spit.

Dean gives himself a few seconds to let it all hit him, staring blankly at the dense woods ahead before dragging himself out of the darkest recesses of his mind. He’s a piece of shit; curse or not, but now is not the time to dwell on it. He picks Sam off the side of the road, easy as lifting a complacent toddler, and arranges him in the back seat of the Impala. 

It brings him back to when he killed that rapist and his drug dealer and Sam was passed out in the back seat from the roofies. Is he really any better? He grabs a blanket from the trunk and drapes it over Sam and close the door and gets back behind the wheel. 

Controlling the urge to the scream, Dean starts the car and presses the gas. A thousand miles left to the Grand Canyon. 

~~~~~~~~

Sam wakes up with a sore throat and the taste of sleep and come coating his mouth. There’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and he’s crammed into the backseat of the Impala while Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s tunelessly crooning along to some slow Bob Seger song, almost unconsciously, because even from the back, Sam can tell that Dean is deep in thought.

He can’t believe he actually got away with it. He thought for sure, the truth was going to come out. Everything about Marcus and his hunt for Azazel, everything Jess said about the dangers of being even close to Azazel, the real reason they’re going to the Grand Canyon, but Dean had trusted him and he lied. That makes his stomach ache, but he pushes it down because it's worth it. It’s going to be worth it.

He managed to spin some incredible lie, albeit it was mixed with bits of truth, and keep the real reason for Dean’s "episode" a secret. Apparently, this hunting gig really helped him with his ability to come up with lies on the spot. With all the fake IDs and disguises and cover stories, Sam was still surprised at this ability to create such a convincing story. 

Still, it was scary that they were still a thousand miles away from Flagstaff when Dean acted out, so he can’t imagine what’ll happen when they actually get much closer. Hopefully, that rough facefucking will keep that part of him sated for a while. Also, thinking about it, Azazel might not even be in Flagstaff right now, maybe he’s closer. That demon in the library did say that he wouldn’t be in Flagstaff til later, so maybe they had passed him by and Dean was hit. Doesn’t explain why he wasn’t affected though. Too much of this curse doesn’t make sense and thinking about it makes his head hurt. Whatever, he can’t ponder on this right now. He’s so close to getting everything he wants, what he needs.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but he knows that every mile is just another step to gaining his freedom. He just hopes he can survive long enough to get it. He subtly snuggles deeper under the blanket and lets Dean’s soft croons and the rumble of the Impala lull him back to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments feed my soul!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little chapter. This actually wasn't supposed to exist, but the last chapter I wrote broke my outline, so I had to make this chapter just so I could get everything back on track for the upcoming chapters. A new episode was just on tonight (no spoilers if y'all still watch). I couldn't watch since I have to wait to go home and watch it with my sister. Hoping it was good! Enjoy the update.

Sam’s looking at him with needling pity, stark and present in the green of his eyes. Dean grips the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whiter than fresh snowfall. 

“Will you quit looking at me like that.” If anything Sam’s pity deepens into a suffocating dark blue. 

“I’m not looking at you any kind of way.” Sam looks away as if to prove his point but Dean can still read Sam’s emotions in the set of his shoulders. “About six hundred more miles left, right?”   


“Stop trying to change the subject, Sam. Just own up to the fact that you think I’m a monster who can’t control his stupid sexual urges.” He’s said it. Unfiltered and raw. Sam’s head whips around, baby curls flying into his face. 

“What? That’s what this is about? I already told you, Dean…”

“...Yeah, you said it was the curse, but I should be better than that. I should’ve had some control over it, for God's sake. And now you’re looking at me like I’m some rabid puppy dog that needs to be put down or something.” 

“No, I’m not. And you did actually hold out for quite a while. It looked like it was killing you, so I let you do what you needed to do. You would’ve let me do the same, hell, you might even have to let me do same if another burst like that hits _me_ next time. I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out it.”

Dean barely manages to keep his voice level.

“That’s because it is a _big_ deal, Sam. At least to me. I just wish we could forget all this mess and go back to how it was.” That seems to trigger an ugly laugh from Sam. 

“What?” 

“Are you serious right now? _How it was_? Shut up, Dean.  _ How it was,  _ was  us pretending that everything was fine. That you keeping me here against my will was for shits and giggles. At least this way, it forces you to see the kind of hell you’ve been putting me through for the past two years.” 

The silence in the car is so thick you can’t even slice through it with the sharpest knife they keep in the trunk. 

“You really feel that way? The entirety of these two years has been nothing but hell for you, Sammy? Everything we did together you hated? That I’ve been physically and metaphorically _ raping  _ you for two years straight? And now you're just bringing it up?” He can’t keep his voice from cracking. He gets a scoff in return.

“Ugh, why do you always turn it back on you like some stupid pity party for yourself, like this isn’t your fault.” There’s nothing but irritation in Sam’s voice like he’s mad at Dean for feeling some semblance of emotion. “Dean, I obviously haven’t hated everything we’ve done together for the past two years. It’s just that… no matter how many pillows and decorations you put in it, a cage is still a cage. I like being with you… love being with you... sometimes. I just wish it was my choice to be here.”

“Me too.”

“Huh?”

“I said, me too. In fact, I wish you were at Stanford right now, gulping down your girly coffees studying your nerdy little ass off for some upcoming final. Maybe I could've been a mechanic at some garage nearby working on classic cars, taking hunts in my free time and coming home to your whiny ass every night. No one would know we're brothers, we could've just been us. I wish you could've had a normal, boring ass life with all the mundane problems instead of demons cornering you in convenience stores. But you can’t.” There’s a finality there. It breaks Dean’s heart and he can practically hear Sam’s shattering along with his.

“Why not?” Sam’s voice is a timid remnant of the previous anger. 

“I have to protect you.” 

“From what?” 

“From everything," he pauses. "From yourself.” Dean feels numb, corpse tired. Of the lies, of everything. The weight on his chest that’s been there for the past two years is becoming too much to bear.

“Myself?” 

“Like Dad said, I either have to save you or kill you, it’s the only way. And I'm saving you, Sammy. Whether it kills me or not. Whether you hate me or not. I'm _saving_ you.” He's speaking more to himself as he lets it spill, and it feels freeing. The weight has lifted for one moment, but he knows he’ll have to shoulder it once more. But just to feel free for this drifting seconds… it’s close to nirvana.

“What!? What the hell are you talking about?! Dean?! Dad said what?” Hysteria. It's a crescendo and shaking on each syllable.

“Just forget it, Sam.” 

“Forget it? Forget it?! Are you out of your fucking mind-” Time for the final push. 

“I said  _ forget it, Sam. _ ” It's quiet. Quiet as if time saw the mess that Dean created and paused for a moment just to get some peace.

“Ok, Dean,” A blank voice replies. Dean glances over to Sam. His eyes are glazed over in compliance and staring at the road ahead but not actually taking in the sight. Dean lets the weight resettle and contemplates.

“Forget what I just said, Sam” he reiterates with full force. Makes sure it sticks.”And forget what just happened, I don’t need your pity. I never got hit with the curse back there. We never pulled over to the side of the road. You never told me the truth about the demon you met," It's hard and easy at the same time, but he pushes out the last statements, "I never... forced myself on you. We just drove. And you slept the whole time.” 

“Ok, Dean,” Sam repeats in the same empty tone, eyes unmoving. 

“Six hundred miles to the Grand Canyon, Sammy.” Sam doesn’t give a reply. Dean didn’t expect one. 

“You can sleep now, kiddo.” 

“Ok, Dean.” One last time and eyes slide shut while the strings holding Sam up are cut. 

Deep breaths. Six hundred miles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are beautiful, grateful for all the kudos as well.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but this chapter is double the length my usual postings, so hopefully, that makes up for it :D This is unbeta'd so there's probably some simple mistakes, feel free to point 'em out. Enjoy!

Surprisingly, the journey to the Grand Canyon was… uneventful. Sam had expected fallout, messier than the actual melancholy ride he had experienced. He thought that maybe the side-effects of the curse that the demon in Delaware mentioned would rear their ugly head but they never did, even as they drew closer and closer to Arizona. In fact, Sam spent most of the 32-hour car ride asleep; it must’ve been the stress.

They traded off driving a couple times towards the end and it felt good to have the leather of the steering wheel under his fingertips and the pedals pressed beneath his foot. Each mile added on the odometer sent a satisfying thrum into Sam’s bones as hope raised in the horizon. 

He and Dean actually talked like they were brothers again, witty and not so witty bantering between them. Inside jokes and nostalgia littered the air and it felt so damn good that Sam was almost giddy on it. Still, there was a look, maybe pain, maybe guilt, in the corner of Dean’s eye every time he watched Sam, but Sam chalked it up to the usual self-loathing Dean carries around.

Currently, Dean’s back at the wheel reminiscing about Sam’s awkwardness during puberty.

“…You should’ve seen your face when you first saw tits for the first time. I think her name was Janet, or maybe Jane, or something like that. Dad was out, God knows where, and I had this sweet little thing in my bed. And in you waltz, twelve and barely tall enough to reach a counter and you walk through the motel door and run straight into her cleavage too busy ranting about your science project…” Dean breaks off laughing, an ugly snort mixed in between his guffaws and Sam does his best to keep the bitch-face in place that’s holding back the reluctant smile.

“Not my fault that you insisted on having half-naked girls in the bedroom that _we_ shared. It was barely 3 PM and I just got out of school, I wasn’t expecting to be accosted by a face full at the tender age of 12.”

“Don’t lie, Sammy. You loved it. And I’ll never forget what she said after you left the room, red-faced with your little stiffie poking her in the knee.”

“I did not have a boner!”

“Yeah, you did. But she tells me…” Dean waves his hands around wildly as he tells the story, “She tells me, ‘Your little brother has the softest hair, do you know what conditioner he uses?’” Dean breaks into more laughter and Sam’s red-faced slumping in the passenger side. 

“Shut up.”

“I think I actually gave her your bottle; it was some strawberry flavored crap. She thanked me with a blow job afterward,” Dean smirks at the memory.

“I hate you.”

Dean’s eyes soften as he looks over at Sam before he puts back on that self-satisfied, shit-eating grin. “I know, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You’re such a girl, with all your fancy conditioners and Disney princess hair. I thought you would like the little endearments.” 

“I really hate you…” Sam thinks for a moment, “…honeybunches.” It feels awkward in his mouth, it doesn’t roll out with the same ease that Dean has, but it’s worth it to see the grimace on Dean’s face.

“Ugh, Don’t do that again.”

“What’s wrong, baby? Don’t like it when the shoes on the other foot, sweetheart?” Sam smiles with every cringe that Dean makes.

“Ok, ok! I concede… for now,” Deans turns down the music for a second, “It’s not even my fault though. They just come out naturally, you should be flattered. When you do it though…” Dean shudders in exaggeration.

“Ok, how about I set a limit.”

Dean looks over curiously, a smile tinting the edges of his lips. “Mmkay, Sammy.” He licks his lips once and a simple action like that shouldn’t be so hot, but it is. Sam traces the movement with his eyes following the movement of Dean’s lips almost hypnotically, “What’s my quota?”

“Let’s say…” Sam pauses and mirrors the movements and wets his own lips. He’s satisfied when Dean tracks his tongue with the same intensity. “Four endearments a week.” 

“Oh no, Sammy. You’re lowballing me. At least four a day. I can’t help my nature, after all.” 

“One a day.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“Deal,” Dean says way too fast, smiling so wide it almost breaks at the corners of his cheeks.

“You fucking tricked me.”

“That I did, sweetheart.”

“I hope you realize there’s a loaded gun in the back seat that I have no problem reaching for.”

“Like you could ever shoot this pretty face.” There’s a comfortable pause in the air as they both settle down. The music gets turned back up and signs blur together until one draws his attention. It’s in that same shade of road-sign green with the contrasted white fluorescent font but seeing those words makes his stomach squeeze and his heart race.

 

World’s First International Dark Sky City

**ENTERING**

**FLAGSTAFF**

Elevation – 6906

Founded 1882

America’s First STEM Community

 

Like a punch to the gut, it hits him all at once. He made it.

He _fucking_ made it! 

“Hey, Sammy. You okay?” It takes one glance at his brother and it hits him again, instead of a punch to the gut, it’s a swing of a bat from Babe Ruth himself. 

Dean.

God, when did Dean becomes so fucking hot? The concern in Dean’s eyes is so thick, Sam could swallow it from the air, but he’d rather be swallowing something else. Sam’s eyes are fixed on the denim between Dean’s legs and the zipper moves on its own accord. Rushing like running water, the zipper flies down with such a ferocity that it splits past the metal teeth and tears at the seams.

“What the fuck?” Dean’s questioning his pants randomly combusting until he looks over and sees the look in Sam’s eye “Oh, shit. Sammy, I’m going to need you to calm down.” 

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I need, Dean… it hurts. Let me, let me, let me,” Sam’s well aware of his own incoherence, but nothing matters besides getting Dean’s cock in his mouth.

“Stop, Sam.” It’s a command. 

Fuck it’s a command.

Dean pulls over and Sam can’t help the whine the tears out his throat. A fire is raging its way through every bone in his body. He needs it to stop. He slumps down into the chair and starts to beat his head against the back the seat. Harder and harder, something to distract from the pain on the inside, because Dean won’t let him.

“…Sammy, Sammy. You gotta stop it, man.” Sam realizes he didn’t even hear Dean over the sounds of his pleas and head bumping against the back of the vinyl. Sam stops bumping at the order and starts clawing at his skin before Dean grabs his wrist in a bruising grip that hurts and feels so fucking good.

“Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t… don’t…” his mouth is a jumble and the inferno insides subsides to a smoldering blanket. 

“I’m gonna help you, Sammy. Just don’t move for one goddamn minute.” So Sam doesn’t move, he just screams when Dean lets go. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Dean fumble with his boxers, cursing the whole way. He pulls out his dick and starts to gesture towards Sam, but he can’t hear Dean over his screaming and he can’t touch it so he just screams louder as the heat licks up his throat and up into his skull until there’s nothing but pain.

~~~~~~~ 

When he comes to, his head is cradled in Dean’s lap and his mouth is oddly full. He moves around and feels the firm flesh harden slightly under his tongue and he lets out a moan of satisfaction.

He’s never minded sucking dick before, hell, he gets pleasure from giving it, but this is something else. It’s like fresh water after running miles in the sweltering heat. It’s like falling in bed after 48 hours with no sleep. It’s mercy.

He hears a breathy, weak, chuckle above him and he lifts his head slightly to see Dean looking pale and haggard and 10 years older than he was minutes ago. He glances down at Sam, worries in his eyes and dick slightly softening. Sam takes it deeper and sucks hard.

“Fuck…” Dean’s eyes flutter for a minute and his demeanor relaxes by a fraction. “Who knew the P in CPR stood for penis?” It’s a weak joke, but Sam just hums around the head of his cock which earns another groan from Dean. 

“Are you okay?” Dean’s eyes stay ahead on the road and it takes Sam a moment to connect the dots that they’re back on the road. “You passed out on me and I practically had to molest you in your sleep and get you on my dick just to revive you.” He tries to pass it off with humor, but it falls flat in the slight tremors in his body. Sam feels okay enough to lift off for a second while keeping a palm wrapped around the base of Dean’s shaft. 

“I’m fine, now.” His hot breath ghosts over the head as he leans back in to lick at the spongey head savoring the bitter taste gathering in the slit. “Just another perk of this fucking curse it seems. Who would’ve thought after 2 years of dealing with this shit, there would be more surprises, like spontaneous cases of dick-itis.” Sam lies remembering the instant they crossed the border and the pain. He can’t believe they lasted this long without any other meltdowns and attacks. With Dean’s recent behavior, Sam really thought that he would be the first affected, but maybe Dean has more control than he gave him credit for. Maybe it’ll hit him later and it’ll be worse than what’s running through Sam’s veins. He can only hope that doesn’t happen. The only good thing about this is that he knows he’s close and there’s no doubt about it.

He leans down again, mouth wide, as he spreads saliva down the length before deep throating as far as he can go. Tears spring in the corner of his eyes, and he feels the tip force down his throat, but he pushes past his gags until every thick inch is buried in his throat. He feels a type of completion, too much to explain in words and he comes in his pants. Orgasm shuddering through each of his limbs as he moans around Dean’s length.

The vibrations send Dean over the edge and his cock thickens before spurting so far down Sam’s throat, that he can’t even taste the come. Sam comes up for air, breathing hard and stuttering. Dean’s silence worms his way under his skin. 

“I should be fine, Dean. That took a lot of the edge off, but if you could find a motel, that would be great.” Sam dives back down on the soft cock cradling the flesh in his overheated mouth and rests his head back in Dean’s lap.

Dean shudders, obviously oversensitive, but reaches down a hesitant hand to smooth over Sam’s unruly curls.

“Okay, Sam.” The silence returns, thick and cloudy. “I’ll find something, and then we can cure you of this dick-itis” Sam groans at the dumb joke, sound muffled by his full mouth while Dean keeps petting at his head.

“Hey, you named it, not me.” the easiness is back in Dean’s voice. “It’s not my fault that you literally attacked my dick like some rabid dog. I’ve always known I was irresistible but, holy shit, I’ve never seen anyone as cock-thirsty as you.”

Sam scrapes his teeth against Dean’s dick as a warning and he gets a hiss and a light slap on the back of his head. 

“Careful with the merchandise, Sam. If you bite it off, who’s gonna cure your dick-itis then?”

He scrapes once more, a little more pressure. “Hey, hey, hey. Ok, I’m done now.” Dean shifts a bit in the seat “Temperamental little bitch.” He mutters under his breath and Sam does him the courtesy of pretending not to hear him.

~~~~~~~~ 

Dean finds a motel about 15 minutes later; The L Motel. Twenty bucks a night is a steal and it isn’t as shabby as he expects as he pulls into the parking lot. Sam’s still lightly suckling on his dick and Dean pushes down the urge to the thrust into the wet heat, but this is for Sam not for him.

“I’m gonna need you to hop off for a minute, man. I gotta get a room, and then I’m all yours.”

Sam slowly lifts off with a pop and licks his lips, eyes hazy as he looks at Dean. He doesn’t even know how fucking tempting he looks. Lips swollen and spit-shined. Lids heavy covering lust-blown eyes and ruffled hair from Dean’s fingers threading through.

“I’m good.” His voice is hoarse and cracks slightly on the lower tones. “Just hurry back. I think I can get it out of my system as soon as we get a room.” Dean pats Sam on the knee reassuringly and tucks himself back into his pants with some difficulty.

“I’ll be right back, Sammy.” He opens the door with the familiar creak of the Impala doors ringing in his ears. He looks back at Sam’s unfocused eyes and can’t help himself. “Also, if you could try less to look like some kinda rent-boy that would be great. I don’t want the owner to think we’re tryna rent by the hour.”

Sam’s eyes go into focus immediately, indignant and bitchy. He reaches across the backseat to chuck an empty beer can at Dean’s head a moment too late as Dean shuts the door and watches droplets of amber liquid spray across the window.

“You better lick that up, you fucker.” Sam gives him the finger instead and Dean turns around smile tucking the corner of his cheeks. Nothing gets Sam acting like _Sam_ more than Dean acting like a pain-in-the-ass older brother. And if Baby has to take some temporary damage over it, it's well worth the risk.

“Can I get a room for two, two queens.” It’s a middle-aged clerk at the counter looking dubiously at Dean ruffled appearance. Balding in the center of his scalp, Fred, as the nametag on his lapel reads, has definitely seen some better days. He doesn’t even bother to be subtle as he glances behind Dean at Sam. Sam has his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back onto the passenger seat. Sam’s taken off his shirt for some inexplicable reason and his hand has disappeared from view, but Dean can see the undeniable up and down movements of the muscles in his forearm as he jacks himself off.

“Sure thing, buddy.” Fred hands over 2 keys with rubber Ls attached to the keychain as he glances back at Sam once more. “You mind sharing him once you're done?” It takes Dean a couple seconds to connect the dots as shockingly obvious as they might be before he’s pounding a dent the size of his fist into the wood of the desk separating him and the receptionist.

“What the fuck is up with people wanting to fuck my little brother, lately?!” He feels the wood splinter beneath his skin and barely manages to stop himself from landing the next blow to the startled clerk.

“Your brother? Oh, man. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just…” He gestures to Sam’s wanton display looking pretty sheepish and guilty, but still undeniably turned on. Dean can’t blame him.

“Forget about it.” Dean throws a couple extra bills on the broken desk. “Sorry about the desk.” He manages to mutter out before swiping the two keys and not even bothering to explain Sam’s behavior.

He practically stomps outside to the passenger side where Sam still obliviously masturbating under the bright incandescent lamps of the parking lot. He yanks the door open, hauls Sam out, and pushes him towards their motel door. “You couldn’t keep your shirt on for five goddamn minutes?” He shoves a key into Sam’s hand who drops it and starts feeling up Dean instead. “Knock it off, Sam. I told the dude at the desk that we were brothers and you’re seriously not helping our image.” 

“Don’t care.” Sam ducks his face into Dean’s shoulder and starts to nibble his way up Dean’s neck, his cock is still poking ridiculously outside the v of his jeans. Dean gives up trying to remove him and instead focuses on opening the door. 

“If we get run out of the city by people carrying torches and pitchforks, I’m gonna kill you,” Dean says around a moan as Sam sucks a hickey into the junction between his chin and neck. “Fuck, Sam.” He finally manages to fumble with the key enough to get the door open and glances back through the glass door of the lobby to see Fred behind the counter give them a gaze flitting between heavy lust and confusion. He manages to shrug once, rather sheepishly and pulls Sam into the room. He closes the door and locks it behind him, going as far as to use both the basic and sliding locks.

Sam’s getting careless and more urgent, tugging down Dean’s jeans and nearly ripping the fabric with each drag until he finally figures out there’s a belt preventing the access he’s after. Dean needs a second to get everything in order so he does the only thing he can.

“Get on the bed, take off your clothes, get yourself ready and then wait for me. When I say so, you can go at it to your heart’s content, but right now, do what I said. If it gets to the point of real pain, like back in the car, you have permission to do whatever you want. But only if it gets to that point and not a second before then.” Dean reaches into his pocket and throws a couple packets of lube on the questionable looking comforter and heads into the bathroom. He can hear Sam begging in the background and does his best to tune out the whining. "Get to it, Sam. Now."

“Deeaan, Deeaan, Deean. I don’t need that much prep, I just need you. Plleeasse.” Still, Sam’s hands ignore his pleas as his body complies with Dean’s orders. Dean closes the bathroom door much to the vehement protests of his brother. He splashes some water on his face as he stares at his mirror image. He should be worried out his mind, he should be panicking at the sheer neediness of Sam, and he is… on the surface. But the underneath that shallow layer of conventional feelings is excitement. Triumph. It's not like earlier where Sam seemed to be in unbearable agony which nearly scared the shit out of Dean. Sam's just needy, reliant completely on the mercy of Dean. His cock is hard enough to pound nails, though it’s really looking to pound something a lot softer, warmer, and tighter.

He tries, God does he try, to push down the enthusiasm and conjure up the right amount of guilt and panic, but he can’t. He’s probably in the bathroom for about 3 minutes top, getting undressed and collecting himself. He grabs the last lube packet he saved from his jean pocket and strokes himself, coating it with the slick. His dick twitches in anticipation and he can’t help but let the smile spread across his lips before he pushes the door open. 

Sam’s on the edge of the bed, unable to go further, practically vibrating with need. When he sees Dean, the happiness on his face, dimples digging deep into his cheeks, is enough to get Dean moving a little faster.

“Stay still for a moment, Sam,” Sam whines again, sounding more like an upset puppy by the minute and Dean just lets his smile deepen that much. He climbs on the bed and pushes Sam’s pliant body into the sinking mattress. He kisses him deep, tasting every last corner of Sam’s mouth, tongue, teeth, and all. He gives a small nip to swollen lips and starts to trail his way down Sam’s body ignoring the way Sam arches up and begs for more. 

Dean leads a trail of kisses down Sam’s front, licking and nipping at the jut of his clavicle and leaving a hot and wet path down his sternum to his hipbones. He ghosts his mouth over the head of his cock and Sam tries to arch into the plushness of Dean's mouth, but the hold of his hips is unbreakable. Dean lets out a dark chuckle before licking a broad stripe down the entire length and taking it deep into his throat. Sam screams in pure pleasure before coming into Dean’s mouth.

Dean lets the salty thick liquid sit on his tongue while Sam comes down. He slinks his way back up his body and presses his lips against Sam’s letting him drink down his own spend. It’s silent beside their labored breathing and wet messy exchange of tongues.

“More.” It’s barely a whisper against Dean’s lips, but Dean feels it more than he hears it. “More.” Sam intones again and Dean can feel the hot line of Sam’s cock start to thicken up again.  It should be physically impossible to recover that quickly but Dean’s learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Whatever you want, Sammy.” He whispers right back against the softness of Sam’s parted lips. Like a switch flipped, Sam jolts up and pushes Dean into the mattress before attacking Dean’s face with a renewed vigor. For once, Dean just accepts the onslaught because underneath it all, he knows who’s really in control.

Sam doesn’t even bother with the foreplay and lines up Dean’s slick cock and lets himself slide down to the hilt without the barest hint of hesitation. Dean’s instantly encased in tight heat and he wants nothing more than to thrust up and cream Sam’s hole, but it’s like his body knows better, knows what Sam needs. He lets Sam set the pace, which is a frantic and punishing rhythm, and against all odds he doesn’t manage to blow his load within the first 5 seconds. 

“Fuck yeah.” The words draw out of Sam in an exaggerated moan as he throws back his head and grinds deeper. Sam bounces on his dick, it could be 10 seconds, 10 minutes, or 10 days, Dean doesn’t know; he’s lost in the onslaught of pleasure. Sam’s neediness infects his being, the tendrils curling their way under his skin until he’s just as desperate as his brother. Sam rises one last time, the tip of Dean’s cock barely inside before he slams back down and lets loose with a guttural moan, spraying Deans chest with a weaker stream of white sticky spend.

Dean takes immediate action and flips Sam under him and lines back up and thrusts right back into the puffy heated hole. Nothing but the sound of labored breaths, skin slapping against skin, and high, pitchy whines fill the spaces as Dean jackhammers into the unresisting body. Sam’s head is thrown back in overwhelming pleasure and Dean can tell that he’s overstimulated. Every time his cock brushes past that spot Sam’s body clenches up and he lets out an almost pained keen through parted lips. But Sam doesn’t try to stop Dean; instead, he seems to be reveling in each pleasure-pain moment until Dean finally gives one final surge forward and buries himself as deep as he can as he unloads. 

He collapses on the bed next to Sam, chests heaving in sync. When he finally manages to catch his breath, Dean props himself up and watches Sam. His eyes are closed, slow inhales, slower exhales; he looks peaceful. 

“More?” Dean asks. Sam cracks an eyelid and takes in the teasing tilt of Dean’s smirk and just puffs out a sigh before closing his eyes. 

“Fuck off.” It’s barely a whisper, but Dean can hear every drop of little-brother annoyance in the words and it makes him smile even larger. He flops back into bed, hands behind his head and stares at the rough texture of the popcorn ceiling.

“You know when we first pulled up, the dude at the front desk thought you were a hooker.” Dean feels Sam’s gaze on him and turns his head to see his brother’s eyes, wide in shock.

“No, he didn’t!” There’s too much hesitancy in Sam’s voice to convey true disagreement and it makes Dean laugh. 

“Yep. He thought my sweet little baby bro was selling his ass on the street. I think he even wanted a piece for himself.” It sure as hell wasn’t funny at the time, considering he destroyed the desk with is bare hands over the mere suggestion. Yet, seeing the offended pout Sam’s sporting on kiss-bruised lips makes it funny in hindsight. 

Sam scoots over and drops his head onto Dean’s chest, none too gently as Dean feels the air pushed out of his lungs with the heavy fall of Sam on his sternum. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He tugs at the hand trapped under Sam’s weight and manages to get it free just to bring it up to the unruly chestnut curls sprawled everywhere. Sam hums his appreciation as Dean combs through with gentle fingers until he feels Sam’s body sag against him in sleep. 

~~~~~~~~

Sam wakes up feeling… satisfied. Sore almost everywhere, but satisfied. The bed is soft beneath his aching skin and there’s a reassuring weight sinking into the bed next to him. Dean’s sitting up leaning against the shoddy headboard of the bed. His upper canines are worrying the pink flesh of his lips and he’s looking down at his phone. Sam sits up and Dean startles slightly realizing Sam’s awake.

“What’s up? Got some girl pregnant and now she’s asking for alimony?” Sam jokes as he watches the crease between Dean’s forehead deepen. It’s not like he’s actually worried. As flirty as Dean is, he’s not the cheating type. But with the number of girls he slept with back in high school, Sam was always surprised Dean didn’t end up a teen dad. The 98% pregnancy prevention rate didn’t seem to stand a chance against all the girls Dean went through, no matter how tight he wrapped it up. 

“I’m just kidding, what’s going on?” Sam tries to lean over to glance at the screen but there’s no need because Dean’s shoving the phone in his face the next second.

“What the hell is this Sam?” His breath catches as he reads the pixelated black letters against stark blue. 

 

_He’s striking tonight. Call me when you get this. It’s time, Sam._

_-M._

“Why do you have my phone?” There’s been plenty of boundaries crossed over the past years between brothers, but privacy is something that’s always been sacred. After having his free will trampled on, Dean’s always been respectful enough to give Sam some semblance of privacy, but he should’ve known with how everything has been going these past few weeks that he can’t even rely on that anymore. It doesn’t help that Sam and Dean’s phone look exactly the same. They both own thick flip phones with calling and texting capabilities that come in handy.

“You didn’t answer the question, Sam. And don’t give me any bullshit about wrong numbers when this person obviously knows you by name. Tell me who the fuck is texting you and what the hell they’re talking about.” Sam feels the compulsion laced in each syllable and it hurt to hold back the words begging to be spilled. But he does. He holds back with just enough energy to scramble out of bed, outstretch his hand and send a surprised Dean hurtling straight into the wall.

With a heavy thump, Dean hits the tacky wallpaper and slumps to the floor. Sam can finally let it out speaking to his unconscious brother laying on the patchy carpet.

“His name is Marcus. He’s a demon who’s been helping me break the obedience curse. We’ve been tracking down Azazel, the demon who did this to me, for years. And we’ve finally found him, Dean. We’ve finally found him. And I’m going to be free and there’s nothing you do to stop me.” The tight pain unclenches in his belly as he obeys the last command he’ll ever let his brother give him.

He rushes over checking Dean’s pulse and pupils for any signs of a concussion. Everything checks out, thankfully. He doesn’t think he could’ve dealt with unneeded complications but luckily Dean’s made of tougher stuff. Still, his brother looks oddly fragile in just his boxers, almost peaceful in his unconscious state. A pang of regret zings through Sam’s very bones.

He lifts Dean up, hefting the dead weight as best as he can and half carries, half drags him back to the bed and covers him with a sheet from the other bed. Sam grabs the nearest pair of jeans and throws on a flannel from his duffle bag. Packing his backpack with the basics, he grabs his phone from the floor where it had fallen in the ruckus. He casts one last look at Dean and can’t help grazing his fingers through the soft spikes of hair, pushing them back from his forehead. He can’t help but feel like he’s betraying Dean and everything they had at his very core, but the notion is ridiculous. He’s doing what any sane person would do. He’s earning his freedom, but that doesn’t lighten the heavy weight around his neck at seeing his brother laid out like this.

He heaves one last regretful sigh before turning away, slinging his backpack over his shoulders, and dialing Marcus’ number. The dial tone picks up just as the motel door shuts and locks behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments (especially comments) are encouraged and always appreciated!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're slowly but surely reaching the climax. Hope y'all enjoy!

“Hello?” A low tone answers as Sam takes his first step into the brisk morning air. It’s refreshing, to say the least, and the familiar voice at the end of the line comforts him, even knowing it’s a demon.

“Hey Marcus, it’s me... Sam.” It feels redundant and clumsy, but better safe than sorry. “You said you had information.” He scans the parking lot for an inconspicuous car that would suit his purposes. After surveying the first couple rows, he sees a 1994 Ford F-150, rusted and dirty, sitting at the end of the parking lot. He digs his kit out of his backpack while balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear and heads over.

“Yeah, Sam.” There’s a long pause. “How are you?”

“Could be better, but that’s nothing new. So, what’s happening?” Sam fiddles with the locked car glancing around the lot and keeping a careful eye out.

“It’s big, Sam. Azazel is planning something big tonight. At 10:10 PM on the dot, he’s going to be in Flagstaff. 5956 North Dodge Ave., to be exact.”

“Doing what? How the hell do you know this?” The specificity of the details is freaking him out a bit. Before, it’s always been vague clues or hints about where Azazel may or may not be. Now he has the date, location, and time to the goddamn minute and it makes his head spin.

“I just need you to trust me, Sam. It took a lot of groveling and so many layers of deception that I may as well be a bean dip, but I did it. We did it.”

“Fuck, Marcus. You’re literally asking me to trust you, a demon, with something that will change my entire life. Hell, it may even end it.” The lock finally clicks and Sam opens the rusted door of the pickup and slides into the seat. He starts hotwiring, ignoring the tension that’s bunching in his shoulders.

“You’ve trusted me this far,” There’s no hint of annoyance in Marcus’ voice, just his usual unending patience and it relaxes Sam a fraction.

“Barely,” he concedes. The start of the car revs. He glances at his watch: 2:00 PM. He’s got 8 hours and 10 minutes to kill. “Where am I meeting you? I’m assuming we have to prep somehow.” How the hell he’s going to prep to kill some big bad demon is beyond him, but nevertheless.

“North Pines. It’s a café right on the edge of town. We can game plan there.”

“Fine. See you soon.”

“Unless I’m tracked down and dragged back to hell before then.”

“Yeah, unless that happens.” Sam hangs up and puts the truck in gear.

~~~~~~~~

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” There’s no humor in the situation but Sam can help but to let out a breathy laugh coated in tangible disbelief.

He had arrived at the café and spotted Marcus, dressed impeccably in tweed and pinstripes looking all upstanding-citizen and nothing like the demon hiding inside. He had ushered Sam into a booth in the corner, lowly lit by a single light bulb, rustic and chic and perfectly fit for the somber mood. Sam ordered a large vanilla latte ignoring the scoff from the other end of the booth and Marcus got a black coffee with one sugar and an omelet with veggies and cheese. Sam shot him a look but the demon simply brushed it off as he folded his menu and handed it to the waitress with a polite thank you. The tension was heavy in the air but every time Sam had tried to talk he was cut off with a simple shake of the head.

When their drinks and omelet finally arrived, Marcus pushed the eggs towards Sam. “You need to eat. You’ll need every last ounce of strength you can get. I won’t start explaining until you take that first bite.” His voice left no room for argument so Sam just silently opened the silverware wrapped in cloth and took a bite. The eggs were soft and fluffy and practically melted in his mouth; he was surprised at how hungry he was. Lost in the flavor on his tongue and hunger in his stomach, he nearly forgot Marcus sitting across from him until he began to speak.  Sam kept silent besides the scraping of his fork as Marcus explained what Azazel was doing in Flagstaff. 

5956 North Dodge Ave: home of Jared and Lisa Montgomery. Married for 2 years, ages 24 and 26 respectively. The couple had recently had a baby girl, Maria Montgomery, who will be turning 6 months today. She was born in Sedona’s Medical Center at 10:10 PM. Sam’s hand blanches white around the fork and he grips it tighter between his fingers at the mention of the time. Marcus gestures impatiently at Sam’s half-full plate and he reluctantly stabs the tongs back down and swallows around the lump in his throat.  Azazel has plans for Maria Montgomery tonight, whether they be similar to the ones for Sam, he isn’t sure, but they both can’t deny the startling similarities between Sam and Maria’s timelines.

~~~~~~~~

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Unfortunately not.” Marcus watches with interested disinterest as Sam takes the last bite of his omelet and pushes the empty plate to the side ready to formulate some sort of plan of action. 

“Well, we gotta case out the house; get the family out of there. If Azazel gets his hands-”

“We can’t.” Sam splutters out mid-sentence at Marcus’ blunt interruption.

“We can’t?! What do you mean we can’t?”

“First of all, keep your voice down.” Marcus shoots him a glare and Sam realizes that his voice has been rising steadily with each word. “And I’ll tell you why we can’t.  Number one, Azazel will know if you’ve been there. I don’t know what it is about you, but he seems to sense your presence if you reside in one place too long. We’ll have to ambush him when he’s already in the house, not the other way around…”

“He can sense my presence? Who am I, Harry fucking Potter?”

“You may as well be.”

Sam rolls his eyes at that. “Okay, so we can get the civilians out of the house and then stake out the house around 9:30/10. Hopefully, that’s short enough where Azazel won’t sense me.”

“Sam, we can’t let the civvies know anything.” Sam gives him a long hard look, glaring into muddied brown eyes that don’t give the barest hint of emotion.

“So we’re gonna use a family, including a 6-month old baby, as bait?” Marcus sighs hearing the incredulity in Sam’s tone and just leans in further challenging Sam’s stare with one just as intense and determined.

“I wouldn’t put it so bluntly, but yes.”

“No way.”

“Sam-”

“I said no, Marcus.” For the first time since they’ve met, Sam sees the placid demeanor break.

“Samuel, this is a one in a million shot. Do you know how much it took to get this information, how much strategic planning, time, and patience? And even after all that, pulling this off was mostly sheer luck. You are worried about one family when Azazel most likely won’t even harm them?

“But what does it even matter if one family dies when thousands, no, millions are on the line. Azazel is more powerful than you could even imagine. And it’s not because of his strength, but because of his influence. He controls hordes and hordes of demons, all waiting at his beck and call and he’s planning something, something huge, and you’re willing to let it all come to fruition over one family?” Marcus’ voice is hoarse as he tersely whispers each word with such vehemence and intent that Sam is promptly speechless.

Marcus, realizing he’s practically stood up in his righteous anger, smooths his hands down his sweater vest and sits back down composing himself.

“I get your point, I really do but…” Sam trails off and watches as Marcus’ face grow dark. His calm demeanor is back, but the look in his eye betrays the smooth facade. 

“Sam, you asked when we first met why I want Azazel dead? I told you some bullshit line, but now I’ll tell you the truth. He scares me. He honest to god scares me down to any semblance of soul I have left.  He was my… my mentor in my time during hell. Eventually, we graduated from a student-teacher situation to the demon’s version of friendship. He took me topside the first time, and what he did…” Marcus stops, collecting himself for a brief moment, “… what  _ we _ did will stay with me forever. I know that demons are supposed to be bastards, bringing destruction, chaos, death and all that jazz to the earth but that’s not what Azazel is going to do.  He’s going to bring the end, for every last living and dead creature. I can feel it. That’s why I ran. So for once, can you stop being so damn stubborn and listen to me when I tell you what needs to be done?”

Sam processes the secrets that Marcus has only ever hinted out. The final puzzle piece to Marcus’ connection with Azazel slots into place and he lifts his head to take in the most earnest and desperate look he’s ever seen cross a demon’s face and Sam concedes.

“Ok. We’ll do what you want… on one condition.” Marcus’ brief relief quickly turns to suspicion.

“What condition?” There’s a lengthy lull and Sam can practically feel pressure tipping over crushing the air out of his lungs. He exhales one shuddering breath and puts all his cards on the table. 

“I want demon blood.”

~~~~~~~~

“You can’t be serious, Sam. After everything I’ve told you about how bad that shit is for you, you wanna risk your health now? When you’re so close?” The waitress stops by and silence falls across the table.

“Y’all boys need a refill?” She points at their empty cups and Sam glances up and offers her a sincere smile.

“We’ll both take a refill and can I get a glass of water as well.” She smiles back, eyes crinkling at the sides and a brief pang of  _ Dean  _ flashes through his mind before he pushes the thought back.

“No problem, hun. One vanilla latte, one black coffee with one sugar, and a cup of water coming right up.” She leaves the table with a twirl of her apron and he turns his attention back towards Marcus.

“You just went on this huge rant about how Azazel means the end of the  _ fucking _ world and you expect me to show up to a gunfight with the equivalent of a knife. If drinking blood means that I have a better chance of defeating him, I’m sure as hell about to give it a chance. This is bigger than just me now, Marcus.”

“I hate hunters, always with the goddamn self-sacrifice,” He mutters more under his breath, but Sam catches every last word and a wry smile makes its way onto his face.

“That’s the life I was raised into. Might as well put all this training to some use.” Marcus looks up and Sam swears he can see a hint of sadness beneath his usual mask and it makes him catch his breath. He opens his mouth to say something but the waitress interrupts before he can. She places the two mugs and a cup onto the table with a satisfying thump and gives a quick  _ Enjoy _ before scurrying off to the next table where some older man is snapping his fingers to get her attention.

When Sam turns back, all trace of emotion is wiped clean off of Marcus’ face. “I still think you are powerful enough to do it without the blood. Ingesting the blood itself won’t kill you, it’ll do the opposite of course but detoxing could kill you, depending on how much you consume.”

“If I’m powerful enough to do it without the blood, there’s an even better chance I can do it with it, right? And I need as much as possible. This might be our only chance.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He’s not. 

Marcus throws a couple bills on the table and Sam chips in to make for a very generous tip. They exit to the parking lot where Sam’s stolen truck rests.

“It’s gonna take me a few hours to get the supplies, but I can meet you back here around 8 with the blood and we can do some final game planning before we head over.” If Marcus can see the nervous movement in his hands, he doesn’t comment.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” His voice shakes but thankfully doesn’t crack. Marcus gives him a sympathetic nod and disappears from sight. Sam sags against the car catching his breath. Scrubbing his hand through his hair, he pushes himself up, gets into the car, and drives.

~~~~~~~~

Sam glances at his watch. It’s 7:55 PM. He’s been waiting in the vacant parking lot for about 10 minutes, uncaring that he’s early. For the past six hours, he’s just been driving around Arizona. Something about open roads always soothes his nerves even with the empty seat next to him and the foreign feeling of being behind the wheel for too long. He stopped at a diner around 6 PM and had a quick meal, before heading back to their meeting spot and showing up 15 minutes early.

Sam loses his self in empty thought when a familiar figure emerges from the shadows. Marcus has changed into a leather jacket and tight denim jeans and Sam can’t help but blink blankly at the sight it makes. He’s got a tan satchel around his shoulder bumping against his hip with each step and aviators that he raises up to his forehead as he meets Sam’s shocked gaze.

“Yeah, this is what I usually wear. It feels good to be back in leather,” he stretches out his arms, the creak of new leather crackling with each movement. “It just felt disrespectful to Good Ol’ Mr. Grundy to be parading around in his empty suit looking like a hoodlum, so I changed my style to something a lot more conservative.  But since it may be my last night on earth, I thought I might change into something more comfortable. Plus my other outfit kinda got stained in blood.” With that, Sam glances into the satchel that looks uncomfortable heavy with something he doesn’t want to think about too deeply.

“About that,” Sam says, “It’s not going to be your last night.” Marcus’ eyes widen in confusion.

“I’m glad you’ve got the confidence kid but-”

“It’s not that. You’re not coming with me.”

“What do you mean? You’re gonna need me…”

“No, Hell needs you more. Once we go over the game plan, I’ll be fine on my own. After, if I kill- when I kill Azazel, Hell will need a new ruler. You tutored under Azazel, they’ll respect you, if not you can earn their respect or force it. That’s what demons are best at,” He smiles wryly watching the realization spread over Marcus’ face, “Out of every demon I’ve met, I think if someone needs to run Hell, you’d be the best choice. And lord knows the chaos that would spread if demons didn't have some sort of leadership. I don’t want to risk you in a fight you’re not needed in.”

“Sam…”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think. This is what I want and what you should want as well.” There’s a moment of stillness, almost stifling before he feels a rough slap on his shoulder.

“You’re a good kid, Sam Winchester. Too good of a kid. It’s gonna get you killed one day.” There’s no hidden compliment in there, only fact and desolation.

“I know.” He breathes deep. “It’s in there?” He points to the bag Marcus is holding close to his side as if he’s afraid to part with it. 

“Yeah. Two gallons of hell’s finest brew, freshly squeezed.” Marcus takes off the bag and hands it to Sam whose arm drop momentarily under the sudden weight. “It’s not like juice or water or any other liquid. Your body was made to retain it so you could drink 100 gallons without even gaining an ounce of weight. Two is plenty though… more than plenty.”

“Good.” Sam lets the weight of bag center him for a moment. “You didn’t kill anyone did you?”

“No, that’s why it took me so long to get that much. Spent my time extracting a decent amount from each vessel before exorcizing ‘em. Half of them were already dead, but I couldn’t tell with some and your nagging little voice kept ringing in my ears, so I didn’t kill any of them just to be sure.”

“Thank you.” Sam can’t help that his eyes water slightly.

“Don’t thank me. Drink up,” Sam pulls a gallon out of the bag and watches the thick red liquid slosh around in the container. Marcus must see his hesitation. “I’ll be in the truck waiting for you. We can game plan after you finish with your go-juice.” Sam watches Marcus walk around to passenger side and get into the car with the finality of the door shutting signaling Sam to start.

He knows Marcus is probably watching him from one of the rear-view mirrors but the illusion of privacy lets him unscrew the cap and drop it against the pavement. The clattering against the concrete is barely audible, but it feels like a gunshot ringing in his ears.

Placing his lips to the rim, Sam tips the jugs up and drinks deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are love :D


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a nice holiday and Happy New Years! Hope y'all enjoy the update.

He comes back into awareness with an aching head and a tingling sensation running through his fingers. He wiggles the digits feeling semi-soft cotton thread roughly between the calluses on his palms and the tips of his fingers. His head is groggy as he tries to sit up. He makes it about halfway before a wave of nausea swirls in his stomach itching to rise up and spill out. He swallows back the sick and slumps back down. 

_What the fuck happened?_  

Collecting his breath, he attempts to sit up again fighting past the unsteady fog and leans against the headboard of the bed for support. He and Sam had finally made it to Arizona, Flagstaff specifically, and then it gets all fuzzy from there. He untangles himself from the sheets, pushes the covers off to the side in an untidy heap and takes in his surrounding. 

Well, it’s a run-of-the-mill sleazy motel; they must’ve made booked the room for a night or two. When Dean places both feet onto the matted carpet below, he’s met with a muted thump and a dull crack. A glass vial rolls into sight as his foot slips over the smooth surface. He reaches down to pick it up.  

It’s not a vial but a syringe that’s now cracked at its edges due the blunt trauma Dean’s inflicted on it. There’s a little blue liquid left, miniscule droplets sticking to the sides that look startlingly familiar with their iridescent color.

Shit.

With a burst of adrenaline, he rushes up to find the medkit they usually keep in the bathroom. Dean’s head rushes along with the rest of him, quick and dizzy, which halts any immediate plans of speed. He gets his footing and settles down enough to begin a slow, impatient trudge to the bathroom. Dragging feet finally make it to the bathroom and he grips the porcelain of the sink to steady himself. He feels bits of the sink crumble under his tense grip and he loosens slightly, trying to ignore his recently developed inhuman strength. The swimming feeling abates and he’s able to regain his balance and begin his search.

Shuffling through the meager sets of cabinets and drawers, he finally finds the med kit tucked beneath a bleach-stained towel. He opens up the case and sees everything in place except one syringe, of course, and something even more troubling. In the place that usually stores a bright blue liquid, dubbed “knockout juice”, is an empty vial.

“Knockout juice”, nicknamed by the elder Winchester, is actually a synthetic opioid etorphine that they keep in the kit in case of emergency. It’s only taken out if one of them is hurt beyond measure and needs to be unconscious for whatever reason or another. They’ve only used it once, about a year and a half ago, in a small town in upstate New York. After being poisoned by some hag dabbling in witchcraft, Dean began to have violent seizures that practically flung his body around with the strength of the convulsions. He had to be subdued so Sam could properly administer the antidote which involved a complicated ritual using anointing oils and an herb spread painted all over his body. This drug was hard to come by and harder to steal, so seeing the empty vial has his head spinning.

It’s obviously been used on him. Although it was a while ago, he can still remember the after-effects of waking up after a dose of knockout juice. The grogginess was almost unbearable, identical to now, but for some reason, it seems to be subsiding a lot faster than before. He rubs down his body, paying special heed to his arms and thighs and feels a sore spot bloom with numb pain when he prods his upper arm. Turning his torso towards the left, he leans closer to the mirror to get a good look at the spot on his arm where he still feels the dull throbbing from his ministrations. Sure enough, the puncture wound sits vapid and almost invisible underneath a small purpling bruise radiating faint heat outwards. So, he was definitely drugged, but who the hell did it?

He can’t imagine some random monster rummaging through their supplies just to knock Dean out. They would’ve definitely killed him outright. With all the ganking he does on the daily, he’s surprised more monsters aren’t knocking at his door saying, _Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father; prepare to die._ And even forgoing all that bit of logic, only him and Sam really know what the drug is, where it’s at, and what it does. Speaking of, where the fuck is Sam?  

_Sam._  

Of course. God, this fucking drug is really screwing with his mental abilities; he’s barely capable of rational thought. Instead, he’s standing here piecing together the story bit by bit when the answers are practically screaming at him. It’s obvious now, a blinding light right in the face, that Sam is the one who drugged and left him because no other series of events even makes a lick of sense. The question is… why?

_Why would Sam do this?_

There has to be some logical explanation, some good reason why his brother left him unconscious and half-naked in some skanky motel in fucking Arizona. At the thought, his neurons decide to come back online, like a bolt of lightning, his synapses fire and he’s jolted back as memories play across flickering lids like film. 

It starts with the hot steamy sex and that lights his nerves like wildfire through dry timber. Then, comes falling asleep with his brother in his arms, the warm heavy weight on his chest drawing every bit of fondness and corny thoughts from the recesses of his heart. Next, comes waking up from the small vibrations buzzing on the nightstand. He relives reaching for his phone only to find it’s Sam’s instead. The words on the screen sear into his brain, the overly familiar and cryptic text laced with long withheld secrets. It burns through his retinas and gut, hard and heavy like a weight sinking him to the bottom. He remembers the guilt written in the very pores of Sam’s face at the confrontation. He remembers a hand outstretched in betrayal, an invisible force flinging him through the air with a flick of a wrist before everything went black.

Dean gasps, deep and heaving, as he reels from the sudden flood of memories, his brain filtering and processing each moment, sorting until he regains a steady foothold on reality.

Reality is red.

Reality is a hot all-consuming fire of deep ruby and burning scarlet. Dean’s never felt fury this strong is goddamn life. He thought the thing back at the gay club was intense, this, this is worse. So much worse he can barely contextualize it. It’s not some random freak hurting him. It’s not some slimy son of a bitch hurting Sam. It’s Sam hurting _him_. It’s Sam betraying _him_. And that’s what hurts the most.

It runs deeper than rivers, deeper than oceans; it’s a betrayal of the highest order and it has to be paid for with blood. He’s staggering out the bathroom, barely able to catch his breath and flops onto the ruined linens. Head in his hands, gripping the short strands, he lets it overwhelm him. He must look insane, asylum worthy, as he takes shaky labored breaths barely capable of sitting upright but he can’t help it. 

It passes over like a tsunami, seemingly endless powerful waves rush over every square inch of his mind and he lets them. Drowns in thoughts, memories, foreign and familiar feelings alike. And then it’s over. 

He stands up, cranking his neck to each side to relieve the tension. Any sign of dizziness or uncertainity is erased from his body leaving only raw power. His resolve has hardened, stronger than the most refined steel and he knows what he needs to do. 

He needs to find Sam.

He needs to make Sam _suffer_.

He needs to force Sam to his knees, make him do nothing but serve Dean’s will. Dean will deal out pain, deny pleasure. He’ll make him bend over it and take it when Sam wants it, needs it. He’ll make him bend over and take it, especially when Sam doesn’t. He’ll keep Sam complacent and begging for mercy, for salvation. Brand him with his marks, making the tips of his fingers permanent bruises on hips and throat. A collar would look right at home on the slender hollow of Sam’s neck, highlighting ownership. Maybe a tattoo signifying “Property of Dean Winchester” might drive the message home or would the burning embers of a brand be more satisfying? Should he keep Sam in chasity, unable to reach pleasure without Dean's say? He could keep Sam wide, open, and wet all hours of the day, plugging his hole everytime he unloads his spend until Sam's bloated, practically pregnant and dripping his seed around the edges of the plug. Then he could make Sam lick it up and beg for more. All are choices Dean’s happy to consider. He rubs his erection in anticipation. 

There’s a part of Dean that knows his thoughts are wrong, intrusive, completely violent and toxic, overwhelming brain function. He's like a dam that burst through. He held back this evil for so long, ignored all the malicious voices in his head, kept this secret desire under waves of repression and self-denial but it's too late now. This curse that's been needling at him for so long, tying him and Sam together with ropes of steel, has finally broken him. This was just the anvil that broke the camel's back. Maybe there's a part of him that still wants to be good, that wants to find a way to finally set Sam free but that small part of ego is almost irrelevant as the id sweeps over in waves of hot possessive intent.

Sam can run as far as he’d like, but he needs Dean no matter the circumstances and that makes him smile savagely, baring teeth like a rabid dog. But it’s not like he’d let Sam run far in the first place, iron grip on the leash ready to yank it back whenever it suits him.

The first time Sam ran away and Dean found him seizing on the bathroom floor of some motel in “Dean-withdrawal”, he’d done something that was the deepest invasion of privacy but absolutely necessary. He found some sketchy dude on Craigslist and had a tracking chip implanted under the skin of the back of Sam’s thigh and then instantly wiped all memory of the impromptu surgery. Sam thought the scar was from some werewolf hunt Dean had planted into his memory. He never knew that Dean was capable of tracking his every move if he ever had the inclination or need to.

Dean had been so ashamed; he never even bothered to take out the tracking device from the little hidden pouch in the bottom of the backpack. Yet he knew the necessity of it. He had been lucky enough to find Sam that first time, but as smart as Sam was, he could be irrational and headstrong to the point of stupidity. No matter how much pain it had caused him, Sam might’ve tried to run again. He could die, alone and in pain, all because Dean couldn't find him. So, he saw the tracking device as a necessary evil. 

But now, now… he doesn’t give a fresh fuck about anything except getting Sam back and whipping lessons into him with the flat of his belt on fresh skin. The battery of the tracker only has to be changed once every three years, so he should be good. He drags the bag from under the bed, throwing all clothes and weapons aside carelessly as he roots around for the small black device. It’s hidden in a sewed up pouch at the bottom, completely invisible from view. He rips the stitching with an untamed strength and the entire bottom of the bag rips in half like tissue paper, but the tracker is still intact and that is all that matters.

Clicking it on, he watches the screen light up and a red flashing light blink incessantly. It’s a beacon calling Dean stronger than a siren’s song and his mind flashes red to match the blinking light that signals _Sam_. 

Just the thought of the name winds him tight. God, he can’t wait to break him, completely and utterly until there’s nothing left but a submissive, whimpering, pathetic thing. Answering to no one but him, worshipping and idolizing the very ground Dean walks on.

A glance at the clock on the nightstand reads 9:45 PM. He scrambles with the clothes on the ground throwing on a pair of worn jeans and a black tee. He doesn’t bother with a jacket, the blood in his veins practically boiling in furious excitement. He grabs the gun off the bed, loads it, keeps the safety on, tucks it in his waistband and walks out the door. He closes it behind him with a casual push but he hears the tell-tale slam and creak of a door being ripped right off its hinges. He clenches his fist once reveling in the strength running through his veins. He grins, inhuman and vicious. Once he gets his hands on Sam, tonight will be a good night. 

The best night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all comments and kudos left by y'all. It means the world :D


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been so supportive so far. Y'all are gold!

It’s pure power. It’s a rolling inferno rushing under his skin. It’s a high beyond the confines of all the galaxies interconnected. The last drop of blood trickles into his mouth and he can taste it with startling clarity. It’s just as potent as the first drop as it rolls down his throat. He can feel it bypass his stomach and convert straight into energy that’s so concentrated it’s nearly toxic. Sam drops the empty jug, thick red residue sticking on the insides and on the rim. He feels a liquid strain run down from the corner of his lips down to his chin. He catches it with the tip off his finger running it back to the source and savoring the last of the heady flavor on the pad of his thumb. His hands are shaking, not with fear or nerves but with uncontained excitement. It feels like he’s been wrapped in stars, drowned in planets. He’s moving past the speed of sound and light combined and into the nothing as unaltered luminous.

“Sam.” The voice is muffled, barely a blip on his radar but it’s incessant, repeating the same syllable that has no real meaning to him until it does.

“Sam.” He plummets past the stars and the skies until he crashes down to Earth suddenly, overly aware of his surrounding. It’s almost surreal. The buzzing on and in his skin is still present but he can collect his thoughts to resemble something of human functionality. Sometime between the first sip and now, Marcus had hopped out of the car and is currently standing a safe distance away from Sam, worry creasing his forehead. It takes a couple seconds to remember how his mouth works, but he pushes the word through tingling lips and unpracticed tongue.

“… I’m fine, Marcus.” He’s breathing deeply, slurring words, and sucking in lung full after lung full of oxygen trying to adjust to whatever he’s feeling.

“You don’t really look it.” Marcus tries to step closer but it’s like the blood in Sam’s system can feel the potential brimming inside Marcus’ vessel. He starts to pull at the demon inside, just at the edges of capturing the very essence of vitality when Marcus hops back like he was burned by fire.

“Fuck, Sam!” Marcus says from a much larger distance with a type of fear in his eyes. He’s breathing hard and it’s weird to see something essentially dead aspirating like each breath might be his last. It takes mere seconds for Marcus to compose himself and slide a semi-calm façade over the panic, but he seems to see the lack of malice and intent in the tremors of Sam’s hands. “You didn’t do that on purpose, did you?” Marcus echoes, the thoughts clearly written on his face. Sam’s confusion just serves to confirm it. “I’ve never felt something so powerful, except for maybe Azazel, fuck… It’s been a while, but I might even say you’re more powerful than he was. I was just lucky there was no real intent or speed behind that or I would’ve been dead before my body hit the floor.” Sam tries to place more distance between them, even though his blood is singing to do the opposite.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He flexes each finger, trying to focus enough to lower the boil into a simmer. “I can barely control it around you. Something about blood… your blood, the demon blood I just drank… I don’t know... it’s like it’s calling for more.”

“Well, I can’t say I didn’t know this would happen. I just didn’t realize it would be this… overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming is an understatement.” It surges back, the call for blood, the need to reach out and rip Marcus’ soul straight from the source. The distance is helping but Sam can tell it won’t be enough for much longer.

“Marcus, you need to go.”

“Sam, we still need to-”

“No, I’m good. We’ve been over the plan 30 different times already and if you don’t get the hell out of here, I won’t be strong enough to hold back. And then you won’t be around to rule hell after Azazel is gone.” Sam grinds his teeth together holding back the tide of emotions sweeping over him, wave after wave. “And by tomorrow, Azazel _will_ be gone.”

Marcus nods solemnly, each second passing by is a small eternity and Sam is astounded by his own self-control. “Good luck, Sam Winchester. I truly wish you nothing but success.” His tone is oddly morose yet fully sincere. It’s a great departure from the snappy banter he usually throws around. For once, Sam can see the demon’s true antiquity peek through the barrier of mortal skin. There’s nothing but empty air where Marcus once stood. The coils of tension release and Sam breathes in clean, untainted air.

“You too.” He says to the empty space hoping in vain that Marcus can somehow hear him.  

~~~~~~ 

It’s 10:09 when Sam pulls up to the house, it’s cutting it close but just close enough. As he glances at the clock, Sam is struck with a profound realization. He’s been away from Dean for well over 6 hours and not even a drop of a headache lingers in his skull. He feels great, in fact. Fucking fantastic. He remembers the fledgling tension that had been building up in his head before he took that first sip. He can still feel how those small droplets coating the buds of his tongue immediately dissipated any aches and pains he had. From the sore back to the cramped muscles in his thighs. He felt like a new man. He _feels_ like a new man. Maybe if this doesn’t work and he’s still tied to Dean but manages to survive by some slim chance, he can keep a dropper full of blood on him in case of emergencies. Not enough to enhance any powers, just enough for a little more freedom. He’ll have to ask Marcus after this.

Sam gazes out the dirt-streaked window of his stolen truck. The neighborhood is the picture of basic suburbia with 5956 North Dodge Avenue tucked into the end of the cul-de-sac. On each side sits two houses, cookie-cutter as the one residing in the middle with one exception.

On the perfectly mowed lawns of 5955 and 5957 North Dodge Avenue, barely visible in the slivered moonlight, stands two families. On the house to the right is a family of five. A father, a mother, and three kids ranging from an older teen to a child who barely reaches past the knee of the father.

On the house to the left is a family of three. A seemingly single mother with two older sons. The boys tower over their mother flanking her, one on each side. As he pulls up, all eight heads swivel towards him with an uncanny ability in the dark of night. Sam can barely distinguish features but he can feel it in his very soul as their eyes slide to an inky black. It’s a barely a thought, more like instinct, when in sync they take a step towards his car.

Eight identical flashes of light brighten the night. Outlines of skeletal structures and strangled yells permeate the silent night air and bodies drop like puppet strings cut. Sam rushes out, pure adrenaline pushing each foot in front of the other. The families wake up, unharmed and confused, groggy and barely conscious as their humanity floods back through arteries and vessels.

He allows himself a sigh of relief, watching hushed comforts on the cold wet ground of the night before he lifts his gun in the most menacing way he can.

“Get in your cars and get out of here. NOW!” Children cry and parents step in front to block the view of the strange man with the gun but Sam doesn’t let his arm waver. He swivels it to make sure each family gets a view of gleaming metal. His trigger finger is poised but the safety is clicked on. Better to scare them now than to risk their lives even further. There is no time for questions, no time for hasty explanations of the supernatural, just time to get these people safe.

He clicks off the safety and fires a single shot in the air, angling it so when it comes back down it’s nowhere near a single human. It scares the wits into the parents as they usher their families into SUVs and minivans. Tires screech and engines startle. It’s silent for only a moment as the taillights disappear from view until a high-pitched scream sounds from the inside of 5956 North Dodge Avenue. Sam lets the gun fall from numb fingers and runs straight onto the door painted a startling shade of red.

It’s locked, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from busting through with a well-placed kick that tears the hinges like tissue paper. Sixteen stunt demons all reside in the living room, lounging like they were expecting the final guest for their holiday dinner party. The demons all vary in size and shape, gender, race, age, and physicality. Thankfully, they all look of age this time, and that small concession helps him breathe a little easier.

In one corner is an older Asian woman who looks like a stiff breeze would cause her to drift aimlessly in the wind but the look in her eyes reads like burning flesh and piercing steel. There’s also an elegant man lounging on the couch drinking a thick syrupy red substance from a teacup, casual as he licks scarlet from his lips. “Hello, Sam.” He raises his glass in a toast. “Welcome.”

There’s no time to think or to even take a full look around the room, he just lets it build in his core. It’s a ball of light, energy more substantial than the stars above then, he releases. And just like that, sixteen empty vessels lie on the floor. Not a single soul residing in the carcasses that litter the polished hardwood. Just empty unseeing eyes and it burns something deep inside.

There’s another scream from above, ear-piercing and desperate and it stirs him into back into action. He’s practically tripping up the carpeted stairs, flinging open the hallway of doors. An empty bathroom, a guest bedroom, and a home office sit undisturbed and anxiety builds into a rapid crescendo until there’s more screaming. It’s a name. _Maria._ That’s the name of the baby.

He skips past the next door and heads straight for the source of the noise and flings the door open. It’s a nursery. Painted soft baby blue that’s pale in the waning moon. In the middle stands a man in a long black overcoat, one hand outraised in a power. His power is so potent that it is almost visible under the flesh of the body hosting the demon. Even though Sam slammed the door wide open, the demon pays him no attention and the shock freezes him mid-step. There’s a woman pinned to the wall and the sheer white of her dress flutters. Her mouth opens on a scream that’s silenced with a flick of the wrist. Sam watches the women rise against the wall, crudely following the smooth motion underneath the long sleeves of the overcoat. The father is nowhere to be seen. Sam doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not.

The demon lifts his other arm, bare with the sleeve rolled up to the elbow. The skin splits right under the wrist. Ruby droplets well at the surface and start to fall over onto the cream carpet. It’s not until Sam follows the movement of the bloody wrist towards the crib that he’s shocked into action.

“Get away from her!” He’s lost momentum from the stand-still. It takes him a moment to reach into his reserve of power to gather the most strength he can. He feels the blood rush through his body from the tip of his toes to the crown of his head. He feels the cells on his skin rearrange and reach inward for something more. His mind and body strain alike. When it’s at the peak, this close from breaking him apart completely, he shoves everything forwards using his arms as guides.

The demon slams into the wall, the plaster cracking around the outline of his body. The woman falls from the place where she was pinned to the wall, landing hard on her knees.

“Grab your baby and get out the hell out of here!” His arms are straining as energy crackles along the length of each one. The woman doesn’t hesitate and scurries to crib to grab the infant from the confines. It’s then that Sam realizes the baby hasn’t made a single noise the whole time and he fears the worst.

She rushes past him in a white blur and he sees a small glimpse of the child staring at him with an expression much too intense for someone so young. It startles him into the knowledge of believing that this baby was chosen for a reason, that _he_ was chosen for a reason. It only takes a second, a mind-racing thought, and Sam turns his attention back towards the man against the wall.

Every part of the demon’s body below the neck is immobilized but the look of his face is smug. Sam feels his gut churn.

“It’s finally nice to meet you, Sammy.” There’s a smile on his face, inhuman and feral. Sam flinches at the nomenclature but covers it quickly.

“You’re Azazel.” It’s more of a statement than a question but the demon nods his head in agreement. Sam blinks slowly, allowing himself to draw layers of faux bravado to the surface. It’s just like any other evil son-of-a-bitch. He can do this.

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Azazel,” he grits out behind clenched teeth.

“I know.” Azazel’s smile grows even larger. The corners of his grin seem to threaten to tear the edges of his face into a bloody mockery. “I’ve been expecting you, that’s why I always keep some security around every residence I visit. I wanted to meet you much earlier, but I couldn’t make it too easy on you, could I?”

Sam drops his guard for a millisecond. His arms are just as steady but his mind is whirling in a dizzy blur.

“Well you sure know how to make a guy feel special,” The words feel awkward in Sam’s mouth, not as smooth as Dean manages to pull off, but it gives him a false shield to hide behind. “But I blew through those demons like they were nothing more than smoke. I think you need to upgrade your security a bit.”

“Oh, they were not there to stop you, dear boy.”

“What-”

“They were there to drain you.” Sam pales and he feels his power snap like a brittle twig. A simple flick of the wrist and Azazel has Sam pinned against the wall. Their positions reverse fast, in a split second, with less effort than it takes to blink. The demon looks excited and eyes start to glow the yellow of street lamps in abandoned alleys. He steps closer to Sam, eyes piercing into him like a physical pain. He screams in frustration and unfiltered fear as he struggles to break free of the vice grip around his body. He’s quieted but not silenced by the same force as his voice becomes a fraction of what it used to be.

“Enough of that grunting, Sammy. It makes you look practically uncivilized,” Azazel pats his chest like he’s soothing a child. “I’m not going to lie, it’s a little pathetic that you thought you could kill me, but I admire the confidence kid. I have to admit, it’s a strain on my old bone to try and wrestle you down after you’ve drunk some demon-grade Ovaltine that’s not straight from the teat. So, I thought it would be smart for you to have some friends to burn your energy on.

“Somehow, I knew you would be all too eager to meet me. You didn’t even think about restocking on those blood bags down. I even made sure all the hosts were dead in case you wanted a little sip. I know how your ‘morals’ get in the way of logic sometimes.”

Sam’s stomach is rolling in heaving waves and he’s tired beyond measure. Tired of being tossed around, tired of being played like a pawn by everyone in his life; friend or foe. He slumps against the wall, righteous anger quelled in the hopelessness of the present.

“What do you want?” Azazel actually looks disappointed in Sam’s lack of fight. That makes him feel a drop a satisfaction but nothing that turns the tide on the wave of absolute crushing defeat. Azazel turns away for a second a looks out the window, contemplative.

“I want the world bowing at my feet. I want to see it overrun with chaos, pain, and misery so potent that the waters bleed red.” He pauses looking absolutely sinister and gleeful in the same light before turning back to Sam. “But right now, I just want to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos sustain me :D


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azazel said he wanted to talk and it's true. In this chapter he barely shuts up. It's pretty dialogue heavy, but lots of secrets are unveiled. Hope y'all enjoy!

“You want to talk to me?” The words come out muddled with slow confusion. Sam’s left arm is starting to strain against the wall in pain, but the demon keeps it pinned down. There’s no room for even the slightest resistance. 

Azazel laughs. It’s a sharp biting thing that rings in his ears coating them with malice. “You think I went through all this trouble just to kill you!? I have plans for you, Sammy. Big plans, indeed.” Azazel stops to lick his lips, one salacious swipe of tongue over thin cruel lips. “And I think it’s better if I actually took the time to explain them to you. I don’t want you running in there half-cocked. 

“You have the intelligence. You have the potential. And it’s not like you have an inkling of a chance to defeat me, so what does it matter if I do a clichéd villain monologue. There’s no one who could stop me.”  

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You talk big but you don’t know shit about me and you never-” Sam’s cut off as his words blur into quiet. His mouth is moving around words that don’t make a single sound. It’s common trick he’s used on many demons and now it’s being turned back on him.  

“I thought I said that I wanted to talk to you, not the other way around.” Azazel scoffs adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “This generation, I swear, has no respect for villainous diatribes. I went through all this trouble and you aren’t even polite enough to listen to all of my speech.” He taps his chin in faux thought, the gleam of intent never leaving the yellow of his eyes. “Now, where was I?”

“I was talking about my plans for you, wasn’t I? Dear little precious Sammy Winchester. I have so many… so very many… but let’s start with the main one, shall we? In the simplest terms, you’ll lead an army. More than lead an army. You’ll lead a kingdom! Long live the Boy King.” 

_ An army of what? For what?  _ Sam’s given up trying to escape at the moment, focused on the plan that’s unveiling. Though powerless to speak, Azazel is still able to read the confusion of Sam’s face. 

“You’re probably wondering, _ an army of what _ ? and _ for what? _ …” Sam’s eyes are wide in surprise as the demon repeats the exact phrasing of the questions running through his mind. Can Azazel read his mind? 

“… And no, I can’t read your mind, unless I’m inside you.” Azazel takes the time to leer lewdly in his direction. Sam practically flinches at the overt intent behind the words but holds back. Azazel still manages to see through his thin guise and his smile widens. “Maybe some other time, darling. But it’s much simpler than that. Guessing your thoughts is easy, predictable like most human scum. You’re still so simple-minded it’s laughable but, don’t worry, you’ll wise up in time.

“Now to answer your questions.  _ An army of what?  _ Well, it’ll start off simple, demons. High level, low level, every type of tortured soul you could possibly imagine. Red eyes, white eyes, and black eyes of course. I’m sure there are a couple more yellow-eyed bastards lurking around for us to command.” His amber eyes burn brighter in the dim glow of the street lights outside. “We’ll organize our ranks then assimilate the rest of the scum of the earth. Either they join or die, but every last thing you’ve ever hunted and things you never knew even existed will be marching alongside us.

“And  _ for what? _ You could call it an apocalypse of sorts. No longer will we be relegated to the depth of hells and the shadowy corners of the night. We’ll fill the earth with organized destruction that will have humans bowing at our feet and slashing their own throats as an offering. All with you at the forefront and me as your loyal advisor. And if I’m pulling all the strings, then that’s just as well.” 

All Sam can think is…  _ Why me? _

“Why you though? Well, it’s been spread through hell like a bad rumor… but it’s not a rumor, it’s prophecy. You shall be the one to bring the true apocalypse to fruition with the father of demons himself. Many call him the devil but that’s an exaggeration. His real name is as beautiful as he is.” Azazel grins, vicious and victorious as he watches Sam mouth the words along with him. 

“Lucifer.”

Sam sees flashes of bible school stories streak past his eyes. Horns, forked tail, pitchfork, and red-hued skin. Fire and brimstone, screaming, falling angels, jealousy, corruption. There’s no goddamn way this can be true. 

Sam has prayed every day since finding out their dad wasn’t a traveling car salesman but a man who hunted monsters. A man who risked his life every single day without a backward glance at his kids he left abandoned in motel rooms across the country. He prayed for his father, he prayed for his brother, he even prayed for his mother even though it might’ve been too late for that. But most of all, he prayed for himself. Selfish as it might sound, he was constantly praying for purity and salvation. 

He wasn’t even double digits, conscience and morality still developing, but he knew he wasn’t clean. He knew he wasn’t worthy of being a hero. Not like his father or his brother. He was never good enough. Gaining powers on his tenth birthday just solidified everything he was feeling but he didn’t stop praying. In fact, he prayed more often. He prayed at least twice a day; once when waking up and once when falling asleep. He clasped together clumsy hands before meals when his Dad and Dean weren’t paying attention. He murmured words of faith between tears when his brother or father were lying on a hospital bed or bleeding in the backseat. He prayed apologies for being filthy and not worthy of love. 

So when Dean or John healed from almost impossible injuries, Sam sent a quick word of thanks to the sky and smiled a little larger. When prayers of stability or normality were never answered, he never blamed God. He was probably up there with too much on his plate and couldn’t answer every prayer Sam needed. Plus, a lot of people probably had it worse than him. 

When he turned 18 and life started a steep decline, he never quite quit praying. Maybe not as often as before but his faith was still a centerpiece of his spirit until now. Thinking back, God probably never gave a shit and certainly never bothered to answer a single prayer. Any prayers “answered” were probably flukes, the rule of averages. I mean, why would God ever answer the prayers of the literal Antichrist? 

Sam feels his shoulder droop in disgust, just being in his own skin is making him itchy. His head drops and the curtain of hair hides his face and he pushes back the stinging in the corner of his eyes. He can’t cry. Not in front of that thing. He won’t. 

He hears it laugh, satisfied like a wolf who just fed its fill. A gentle and smooth hand lifts his face and he jerks his head away only to have it gripped a turned back. Pale gold digs holes into his skull with the unfiltered intensity. Sam clenches his eyes to shut out the burn.

“Sometimes you would pray so loud, I could hear you.” Sam refuses to open his eyes even as the words worm their way into his conscious. “You see; I might not be able to read your mind but I can feel what you feel. We’re connected. Since you were six months old and I slipped you a couple drops of concentrated demon blood straight from the source. Mix that with some ancient babble and you’ve got the stunning product I see before my eyes. Who knew you’d turn out so pretty though?” A finger strokes down his cheeks, thumbing at his lips but not pushing in. Sam’s eyes fly open at that, accusing but cautious. 

“I see that I have your attention now, big boy. Good. The thing is you would’ve been fine, a perfect leader and companion to our Father all on your own, but I thought I’d unlock your potential even further. Push the barriers of human limits and turn you into something truly extraordinary. Sorry, your poor mother got in the way. That was an accident, she was never supposed to be there but…” He takes a step back removing his hand and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “… things happen.” 

Sam tries with everything in his being to move, just so he can hurt the thing that hurt his family, that stole life without cause, without regret. His blood is boiling and hot angry tears are falling. He can’t even bring himself to give a fuck because the anger cancels out any shame, any sadness, any emotions except the fuel to keep the flame lit. A foot lifts off and slams back into the wall like a magnet. Fingers wiggle minutely for a few sparing seconds before all stamina zaps out of him leaving him limp against the wall. 

“That’s all the energy you can spare for your dead mother? Pathetic. Guess you are the perfect monster. I see why He chose you.”

Sam can’t bring himself to do anything but let one last tear roll down, brimming with unfiltered anger even as hope is crushed like a bug on a windshield. 

“I’m kidding, Sammy. Sorry.” Azazel doesn’t look sorry at all. “It was actually rather impressive considering how drained you should be. I just wanted to see if I could hit you where it hurts. And it was easy because I know you. It’s our connection

“You probably don’t know this because it seems like you’re a newly inducted blood drinker, but I’ll let you in a secret. I made you special, very special, but it comes with a price. When you drink blood, it puts you in debt of whoever you fed from. Meaning that any demon can basically control every little thing you do.” Azazel smiles, teeth gleaming. “No one knows that besides that me. Well, now you know, but I don’t think you’d be inclined to tell anyone else that. And the chances of someone happening upon that interesting little fact are slim to none so don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. From now on, I’ll be the only one controlling you. 

“And if you couldn’t tell, I’m not some average demon. Just look at these beautiful set of blinkers,” he bats his eyelashes comically. “I’m levels above. Mere drops of my blood 19 years ago twisted your DNA. I awakened latent potential that you were developing into something so powerful that you’ll carry it forever. And to this very day, we still have a connection. It’s fading but still, it lingers. If you drank from me now, you’d do anything for me. Live for me, die for me, get down on your knees for me. All I have to do is say the word.” 

Sam’s shaking his head, bumping his head against the wall with the intensity. He still can’t get sound out but that doesn’t stop him from murmuring  _ nonono _ around the silence. Azazel seems unfazed, happier as each second passed. He turns away from Sam, seemingly looking for something hidden in the disheveled mess of the nursery room. 

“Ah. Here it is.” He stands up brandishing a kitchen knife gleaming in the light, the tip is dull and coated with crusted blood. “Used this on the father. Quite a screamer that one. Sometimes nothing is quite as satisfying as doing some good old torture with a little bit of elbow grease.” With a quick swiping motion, the skin of Azazel’s wrist splits open, blood dripping thickly onto the floor. He inches closer and closer, seemingly relaxed but there’s a raw excitement there, it’s uncontained. “Once we get some of this in your system, we can take you off this voice restriction. I’d love to hear how you sound when you beg.”

He uses the other hand, the one not dripping at the wrist, to pinch at the hinges in Sam’s jaw to force it open. He starts to lift his bloody wrist higher and higher, closer and closer.

“Drink up, Sammy.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter features Sam, Dean, and Azazel all in one room together. A lot more secrets are gonna come to light next time and many question y'all guys had will finally be answered next chapter. That being said, it's probably gonna be a longer chapter so it might take me awhile. So I appreciate plenty of patience and of course, comments and kudos really help encourage me. Thanks for sticking with me so far ;D


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally posting an update after a little over two months. Thanks for being so patient if you're still following the story. This is actually only half the original planned chapter because I thought it was better to finally get something out then to make y'all wait any longer. Hopefully y'all enjoy the update.

There’s a rusted truck, some older-model Ford, sitting on the curb in front of one of the houses. This neighborhood bleeds modern-day suburbia from the grassy green lawns to actual white picket fences separating green grass from greener grass. The Ford is inconspicuous, a little outdated, and a stark contrast to the gleaming SUVs and minivans littering the cul-de-sac. It’s the exact kind of car Sam would’ve chosen to make a get-away in.

Dean glances down at the tracking device. Sam’s red dot blinks incessantly, consistent and steady. There’s also a green blur, representing him, on the screen. It blinks on the off-beat overlaying the red. Colors opposite in scheme blinking in a tangled sort of symphony. He smiles viciously, turns off the tracker, and throws it in the passenger seat beside him. Time to get back what rightfully belongs to him.

He hops out of the Impala, slamming the door shut behind him. The car shudders and lurches with the force and Dean is aware enough to see a slight dent. Any other time he might’ve fretted over it, but he doesn’t even give it a second glance. His priorities have been realigned and a mostly useless car is barely on his radar.

Each step he takes echoes in the dead air of the neighborhood. His only companion is the sound of sprinklers creating artificial dew on each blade of grass. He walks by the empty Ford giving it a passing glance but never breaking his stride. The door of the house is hanging from one hinge, destroyed with a vain sort of carelessness. The door is painted a startling shade of red, deep and rich. Naturally, it makes Dean think of blood.

Sam would look nice covered in blood. 

Littered in cuts and bruises all made by Dean’s hands, by Dean’s knife. Not deep enough to kill, of course, but deep enough to hurt. Deep enough to make Sam feel the same desperation that’s coursing through his body like a tsunami. Deep enough to heal with the faintest of scars that mark Sam as his forever.  A glint of gold catches his eyes and his mind is pushed back on track. The numbers “5956” are a tarnished gold that faintly reflect the moonlight and draw his attention back to the task at hand. He pushes past the door and it snaps off the hinges and crashes to the ground. He takes no notice. 

It’s a modest home, family-friendly furniture and mix-match rugs litter the floor along with 12 dead bodies. He doesn’t even have to give more than a quick look to know that none of them are Sam. He knows he would’ve already felt it if...

Point is, Sam’s very much alive.

Even though none of them are Sam, the corpses themselves should be alarming but there’s something deeper drawing him up the stairs. His body moves on its own accord, step after step. It feels like the ground is crumbling underneath his boots but it’s still and silent besides the beating of his own heart.

He tugs his gun out of his pocket clicking off the safety with a practiced flick and takes the final step to the 2nd floor. There’s plenty of doors to choose from, plenty of mistakes to make before he finds Sam but he doesn’t even hesitate.

It’s a burning glow coming from the door at the end of the hall, not visible to any of the senses Dean is familiar with but it resonates in him like a high pitched bell. It’s ringing in his ears, drawing him closer. A deranged siren calling for blood. Whose blood? He’s not certain but he’ll make sure that there is plenty. His gait is sure, paced and confident, a sharp contrast to the thrumming in his chest. 

The door swings open, a controlled push with just the tips of his fingers, coarse wood on coarse skin. The first thing that registers is the sight of his brother. It happens in the smallest fraction of time but it’s almost overwhelming. Euphoric waves brush over him mixed with a crushing possessive claw squeezing his heart. He’s so fixated on Sam, it takes him a second to drag his attention away and notice the man right next to him.

His hair is cropped close to his head and he’s wearing an oversized overcoat that hides any hint of body shape. A loose wrist, slit and bloody, peaks out from the coat. With each fleeting moment, the wrist draws closer and closer to Sam who’s pinned against the wall unmoving.

“Drink up, Sammy.” The voice of the man is sin incarnate, like a glimpse into death and ultimate power all at once. It’s not particularly deep but shrill like rusted nails on a chalkboard. Dean can’t help but let a growl slip past his pressed lips.

How dare this man even think about touching Sam. Laying dirty hands on what belongs to _only_ him. How dare Sam allow him. They’ll both regret it. He’ll hear the man beg for mercy before he slits his throat. He’ll hear Sam beg for mercy and give him none.  

Heads swivel in his direction and he sees the fear in Sam’s eyes, the tremble in his lips, the dampness in the corner of his eyes. Dean savors it like fine wine before focusing on the man.

Eyes glow an unmistakable yellow. He can’t help but think of old glow sticks, no longer fresh and bright but a sickly yellow still waning in between couch cushions. There’s a cruel smirk plastered on thin lips and a hand lifted in his direction. Before he can take a step forward, he’s pushed back by an invisible force. He’s stuck, fly on flypaper, to the wall opposite of Sam and the forced distance burns something fierce. The monster masquerading as a man smiles again, corner of his lips distorting as they reach higher on his face.

“Nice of you to join us, Dean.”

~~~~~~~~

A calm approach might be the best tactic but the avalanche of adrenalin in Dean refuses to slow. “You son of a bitch. I’m gonna rip your fucking throat out,” Dean’s thrashing against invisible constraints yet barely moving a muscle. He's practically paralyzed from the neck down.

“Watch your temper or I might have to silence you as I did with your mouthy brother,” The man smirks, teeth off-white but still gleaming in the dull light. “It’s not permanent, so don’t fret.” He twirls the knife between his fingers and contemplates Dean’s struggling figure before speaking again.

“Tell me, Dean. Is your brother as good with his mouth as they say he is or is all he good for is mouthing off? I hear you have the best authority on this absolutely enticing subject. Though to be quite frank, it looks like you might be just as well-versed as Sam is rumored to be.”

“You fucking bastard.” Dean ignores the prior warning and feels his vocal cords swell in response, thick in his throat. It feels like he’s choking. His vision whites out, stars dancing behind his eyelids. His world blurs completely before he can breathe again. Gasping at clean air, his anger dilutes as oxygen replaces thoughts.

“You’re a rude one, aren’t you? But I suppose I’m just as rude for not introducing myself.” The man bows deeply, mischief in the yellow of his eyes. “I’m Azazel. My friends would call me Az, perhaps, but I have no friends. Only underlings. It gets kinda lonely at the top but nonetheless.

“I doubt that clears anything up but I feel like it’s important to get names out of the way. I know you are Dean Winchester. And of course, your brother, Sam, and I have already gotten acquainted. In order to have a civil conversation, I’d prefer not to be dubbed as a “son-of-a-bitch” or a “fucking bastard” as you put it so eloquently.

“Although we’ve never met face-to-face until now, you may know me as the demon who killed your mom,” his eyes glitter as he lets the words roll off of his tongue. He allowed a brief, insignificant moment pass before he continues. “To be truthful, I’m the demon that’s probably responsible for a majority of the bad things that have happened in your life but let’s not dwell on the past, shall we. I’m here to make a better future with Sammy at my side. And who knows, Dean. I could always use a second in command. I think you’d make an excellent candidate.”

Dean’s silent. It seems like an eternity, time slowed to an unbearable pace as the words process. The anger dissipates as smooth as steam, and reality takes hold. A demon. Not just any demon, but the demon they’ve been hunting their entire life. The demon that took away golden curls, pitchy Beatles songs and sandwiches with the crust cut off. A demon, more powerful than any creature Sam and Dean have ever faced before.

“I see I’ve rendered the great Dean Winchester speechless. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t hurt him. Please.” The voice is raspy, almost slurring, like it’s struggling to form words. It snaps Dean to attention. Sam is straining against the wall, that little vein in his forehead prominent and bulging. Dean can see the dried tear tracks from across the room and a fierce lash of protectiveness washes over him.

“I see you managed to break through my little voice restraint. Impressive Samuel. Must be all that practice you've been doing beyond your brother's back.” Dean snaps his head towards Azazel and then back to Sam with disbelief.

“Oops, I suppose that was supposed to be a secret. Now I started a bit of drama, didn't I?” Azazel takes in Dean’s confusion and turns to walk closer to Sam while still watching Dean with leering eyes. “Little Sammy never did tell you what he’s been up to these past couple years has he?” 

“Dean, don't listen to him. Let me explain. I swear-” Sam’s voice is gaining strength until it’s cut off abruptly. His mouth shuts like a mouse trap.

“That’s enough out of you. Let’s see if you can break this one. After all the lies you’ve been telling, I think it’s time for a little truth. And who better than me to tell your older brother the truth than little ol’ me.” Azazel turns back towards Dean. “Right, Dean?” 

Sam is shaking his head rapidly, eyes watering, trying valiantly to hold back tears. One part, a large part, burns at the sight of Sam distressed. It wants to break free and stop the cause of those tears, rip apart its lungs and burn its heart. Another part, a larger part, is burning. It’s burning at even the potential of betrayal, the loss of trust, the lies. It wants to break free and ruin Sam, inside and out. That part of him needs to destroy any inclination in Sam that doesn’t end in complete subordination and crush any hope that doesn’t stem from Dean himself. That’s the part of him that wins.

“What truth?” Dean’s voice is eerily steady. It seems to make Sam panic more, his body twitching in an attempt to break the hold Azazel has. Dean turns his face towards the demon. “Tell me.” 

There’s a laugh from the demon. Loud, sudden, and all-encompassing. 

“Oh, I like you, Dean.” Azazel laughs again. “I really do. You deserve the truth and I’m happy to supply it. The betrayal didn’t actually start until a little after Sam turned 18 years old, but I think I’ll start at the very beginning so you can get the full picture…”

The demon starts in 1983. A 6-month old baby with an older brother and two parents very much in love. A 6-month old baby with a destiny that’s unfathomably dark. He’ll be a king, not just among men, but among the creatures in the sky, the ground, the heavens, the hells, and everything in between. It starts with a mother burning, white dress curdling in the flames, darker than the blood that spills into the infant’s mouth. It jump-starts an inescapable destiny culminated by forces beyond comprehension.

“… I think that enough background.” He levels Dean with a look like he’s assessing him. Dean stares right back, teeth grinding and jaw aching under blunt, gritty pressure. It takes everything he has to push down the urge to lash out uselessly but the craving for truth tempers his anger. “Onto the juicier details then…”

According to the demon, it started exactly 2 months, 18 days, and 16 hours after Sam’s 18th birthday. 

Dean learns of Marcus, another demon. A fucking _demon_ that Sam trusted over his own blood brother. Black eyes, black smoke, and lessons engraved into the palms of his hands. Over 2 years of sneaking out, lying – so many lies – and for what? To try and leave Dean. All the years Dean’s dedicated, all the sacrifices he’s made, and Sam wanted to abandon him like he was less than common trash. 

And just like that, it’s all out in the open. Every thought of suspicion that Dean’s had, every time he’s refrained from forcing the truth out of Sam with a couple of well-placed words. Secrets that Sam has been hiding behind wide eyes and false innocent, spilled and turned over in just under six minutes. 

Deep down, Dean knows the truth. He can look back at the times where he was manipulative, where he abused the fragile balance of keeping Sam safe and just keeping Sam. Looking back, he can see the desperation, the moments where Sam’s smile never quite reached his eyes. The look of a caged animal hiding behind snarky quips traded between brothers. It’s a heart-wrenching feeling of guilt that’s barely a whisper compared to the screaming racking his skull.

Each scream boasts betrayal, anger, and the complete need for dominance. He lets it slide through his skin, letting the guilt flake off in dead heaps as fire consumes his thoughts. It must’ve been evident on his face because Azazel’s smile had gotten wider with each new confession.  

“… And all of that led to this very moment.” Azazel finishes with a flourish. Dean’s deathly still, nails biting into the skin of his palms. Sam, on the other hand, is crying. Silent tears streaming down his face, leaving clean tracks in the wake of sweat and a thin layer of grime. It satisfies an animal part of Dean’s psyche. Azazel looks between the brothers seemingly satisfied with the disaster he’s left the aftermath.

“I think I’ll leave you two alone for a bit. So much has been revealed and it seems like you have quite a bit to discuss. Guess I should take off the voice restrictions.” He snaps his fingers and the next instant is filled with Sam coughing roughly. “Plus, I have some additional preparations to make.” Azazel looks like a middle school girl after spilling gossip, almost giggling as he rubs his hand together. The scratchy noises of dry palms grate on Dean’s over-sensitized nerves and he clenches his teeth in annoyance.

Like a light switch, Azazel’s face drops, the facade of humor erased as easy as a chalkboard. “But I’ll be back. So, don’t go anywhere.” The veiled threat is accentuated with a sharp push against the wall. He can hear Sam wheeze against the additional pressure, but Dean refuses to even flinch. Azazel tips him with an approving look and then glances at the both of them. “We still have much to do tonight.”

Azazel disappears and they’re stuck to opposite walls with nothing but each other, harsh breathing, and sticky silence for company. The sickly glow of the moon and the artificial light of street lamps manage to illuminate the room enough for Dean to see the stark fear in Sam’s eyes and it makes a lip quirk. The small gratification of fear-laden respect curbs some of the violence stirring in the cave of his chest.

“Dean...” It’s small and hesitant, quivering on dry lips.

“No.” It’s a single word that quiets Sam better than Azazel could with all his magic. It doesn’t take command, no inflection in his tone to force compliance. It’s the raw heat that Dean knows Sam sees in his eyes. An automatic response that Sam has had drilled into him for years.

Sam closes his eyes, it’s barely a second but Dean can see the gears grinding underneath all that hair. When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer the pathetic, simpering little thing he was mere moments ago. It’s anger and a maddening type of defiance that chafes at Dean’s skin. Sam’s mouth begins to open again but Dean’s not gonna let it get far this time. He has control here, not Sam. Sam will never have any control or any semblance of independence if Dean can help it.

“Shut up. You’re not allowed to speak until I’m _fucking_ finished.” He doesn’t yell or scream. They’re terse words bit out, one after the other, a barbed staccato vibrating through the room. Sam’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clacking. “Nod if you understand.”

A stuttered nod shakes out of Sam as he tries and fails to resist the command. Sam's still seething in the silence, eyes searing into Dean's, but it’s enough for right now. 

“Good.” Dean, even as trapped as he is, feels a sort of power surge through him. He may not be in full control right now, but he’s in full control of Sam and _damn_ , it feels good. “Now, it’s my turn to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments mean the world to me.


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